Chapter 1
The grand banquet hall of the Vance family estate was bathed in brilliant, cinematic light. Crystal chandeliers cast a warm, natural glow over the opulent gathering, completely devoid of any harsh yellow tint. It was a celebration of power, a gathering of the city’s most dangerous elites. Men in tailored, professional suits and women draped in expensive jewels filled the room, their laughter masking the underlying tension that always accompanied a Mafia gathering.
At the far end of the hall, Marcus Vance stood near the arched windows, speaking in hushed tones with two high-ranking associates. Even at thirty-two, Marcus exuded a terrifying, quiet authority. He was handsome as a movie star, his deep, rich dark brown skin flawless under the lights. His thick, slightly wavy hair was naturally slicked back, though a few loose strands fell carelessly over his forehead, giving him a charming, romantic look that sharply contrasted with his cold, intimidating eyes. He wore a dark, tailored suit with the dress shirt unbuttoned at the chest, revealing glimpses of the artistic, refined tattoos on his neck.
At the main family table, the atmosphere was entirely different. Sixteen-year-old Jamal Vance sat impeccably dressed in his formal suit, keeping a watchful eye on his little sister, Zariah. The three-year-old girl, glowing with warm cocoa-brown skin in her elegant child’s dress, was happily eating her dinner.
Suddenly, a shadow fell over them. Eleanor Vance, Marcus’s sixty-eight-year-old half-sister, loomed over the table. Her pale, fair skin was tight with malice, the visible wrinkles around her eyes and mouth deepening as she glared at the child. Her pearl jewelry clinked softly as she reached out.
Without warning, Eleanor snatched Zariah’s dinner plate away.
"Hey! What are you doing?" Jamal demanded, standing up from his seat.
Eleanor ignored the teenager. With a vicious, calculated strike, she kicked the heavy wooden chair entirely out from beneath the little girl.
Zariah plummeted, crashing hard onto the polished ballroom floor.
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A collective gasp rippled through the nearby guests. The clinking of silverware stopped.
"Adopted children eat in the kitchen," Eleanor said coldly, her voice echoing in the sudden silence. She adjusted her expensive rings, looking down at the crying child with absolute disgust. "You do not belong at the main table."
