Taking a single spoonful, Benedict paused, his fingers going rigid around the silver as sudden recognition stilled his features

The grand foyer of the Ashford estate was a cavernous space of polished marble and soaring archways, entirely devoid of the warmth present in the rest of the mansion. The cascading crystal chandeliers were unlit, the only illumination coming from the harsh security floodlights outside bleeding through the high, reinforced windows.

Benedict descended the sweeping marble staircase with measured, deliberate steps. He had removed his suit jacket, wearing only the tailored charcoal vest and a crisp white shirt, the sleeves rolled up to reveal the intricate, refined tattoos wrapping around his muscular forearms.

Standing in the center of the foyer, surrounded by six of Benedict’s heavily armed enforcers, was Dante Pierce. Alessandra’s older brother was a ruthless capo, his face flushed with arrogant rage, his designer suit looking out of place amidst the tactical gear of the guards.

"Where is my sister, Whitestone?" Dante demanded, his voice echoing loudly in the cold space. "You have lost your damn mind! You cannot hold a Pierce hostage in your own home!"

Benedict stopped on the final step, towering over the younger capo. His cold, watchful eyes analyzed Dante with the clinical detachment of a butcher observing livestock.

"Do you believe you give orders in my home, Dante?" Benedict asked, his deep voice a low, terrifying rumble.

"I am not giving orders, I am giving you a final warning!" Dante spat, taking a step forward before Marcus’s massive hand slammed into his chest, stopping him dead. "Release Alessandra right now, or the alliance is dead, and we go to war."

"Are you willing to die for a woman who steals children and orchestrates murder?" Benedict asked, his jaw settling into a sharp, uncompromising line.

Dante sneered, trying to regain his bravado. "She paid off a junkie whore! You are soft, Benedict! You are letting a grifter in a maid's uniform dictate the politics of the entire eastern seaboard!"

"Do you consider the eradication of my bloodline to be mere politics?" Benedict inquired, stepping off the stairs and closing the distance between them until he was mere inches from Dante’s face.

"It's business!" Dante shouted, spit flying from his lips. "And right now, business dictates that you hand her over before my father burns this place down!"

"Shall we see how much your business is worth when it is buried in ashes?" Benedict asked softly.

"You're insane. Hand her over, Benedict. This is your last chance," Dante hissed, lunging forward.

Before Dante could even raise his fist, Benedict moved with blinding, lethal speed. He didn't draw a weapon. He simply reached out, his tattooed hand closing like a steel vice around Dante’s throat. Benedict lifted the younger capo off the marble floor with one arm, the sheer masculine power in his broad shoulders evident as Dante choked and thrashed wildly in the air, his polished leather shoes kicking uselessly.

"Did I invite you into my home to listen to your insults?" Benedict asked, his cold eyes boring into Dante’s rapidly purpling face.

He held Dante suspended for three agonizing seconds before violently throwing him backward. Dante crashed onto the polished marble, gasping frantically for air, clutching his bruised throat, his designer suit ruined.

"Will you crawl back to your vehicles before I decide to keep you here as well?" Benedict asked, looking down at the pathetic figure on the floor.

Marcus grabbed Dante by the collar and hauled him to his feet, shoving him roughly toward the heavy front doors. "Get out of here before the boss changes his mind."

Dante stumbled out the doors, coughing violently. As he reached his armored SUVs, he turned back, screaming a final, desperate threat. "You’re dead, Ashford! You hear me? We’re coming for you tonight!"

The heavy oak doors slammed shut, sealing the mansion once more.

Benedict stood in the center of the foyer, casually adjusting his collar. The confrontation had barely raised his heart rate.

From the shadows of the second-floor landing, Cora stood frozen, her hands gripping the carved wooden banister. She had disobeyed his order to stay in the room, terrified of what was happening below. She realized the massive, apocalyptic scale of the danger surrounding them. The entire city was about to burn because of what she had exposed at the dinner table.