Chapter 10 - The Interception
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The ballroom was a sea of glittering jewels and tailored suits. The string quartet was playing a soaring waltz, masking the dangerous, underlying tension of the room.
Rosie pushed her way through the crowd, her plain gray maid’s uniform drawing shocked, disgusted stares from the elite guests. She didn't care. She scanned the room frantically, her eyes darting past the politicians and the mob bosses, searching for the towering, imposing figure of Thomas Whitfield.
She spotted him standing near the grand staircase, speaking quietly with Silas.
“Thomas!” Rosie tried to shout, but her voice was swallowed by the ambient noise of the party.
Before she could take another step, two massive hands clamped down on her arms.
She was violently yanked backward, dragged behind a heavy velvet curtain that concealed one of the side exits. Two of Don Rossi’s personal enforcers had spotted her. They shoved her hard against the cold stone wall, knocking the wind out of her.
“Where do you think you’re going, little mouse?” one of the guards sneered, pulling a heavy, suppressed pistol from his jacket, pressing the cold barrel directly against her ribs.
“Let me go!” Rosie gasped, struggling wildly against their iron grip. “He’s going to die! You have to let me warn him!”
“The only person dying tonight is you,” the second guard laughed darkly. “Emily said you might be a problem. Looks like she was right.”
The guard raised his hand, balling it into a massive fist, preparing to strike her across the face to silence her permanently. Rosie squeezed her eyes shut, bracing for the impact, praying that Norine would be safe in the staff quarters.
The blow never came.
Instead, a sickening, wet crunch echoed behind the velvet curtain.
The guard holding the gun suddenly gasped, his eyes rolling back into his head as he collapsed forward, a highly specialized throwing knife buried deep in his neck.
The second guard spun around, reaching for his weapon, but a massive hand grabbed him by the throat, lifting him entirely off his feet and slamming him brutally against the stone wall.
Silas stood there, his face an emotionless mask of pure, lethal violence. He didn't use a weapon on the second guard. He simply tightened his grip until the man’s eyes bulged, a sharp snap echoing in the alcove as the guard went limp, his neck broken.
Silas dropped the body to the floor, stepping over the corpses as if they were discarded trash. He looked at Rosie, his expression remarkably calm.
“The boss told me to keep an eye on you,” Silas rumbled softly. “You shouldn't have left the room, Rosie.”
“Silas, you have to stop the toast!” Rosie sobbed, grabbing his massive arm. “Emily poisoned the reserve champagne! She and her father are planning to kill Thomas during the speech!”
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Silas didn't look surprised. A terrifying, predatory smile touched the corner of his scarred mouth.
“We know,” Silas said quietly. “The boss is waiting.”
