Chapter 23
The Capital Grille was a masterpiece of architectural brilliance, filled with the city’s political and legal elite. The room hummed with the sophisticated chatter of wealthy patrons, their sharp American accents blending into a veil of arrogant security. Elias Vance sat near the center, a man with fair, rosy cheeks and a confident, determined smile. He believed he was entirely untouchable. He was profoundly mistaken. The heavy double doors of the restaurant swung open, and the atmosphere plummeted to absolute freezing. Dorian Westbrook stepped into the bright, cinematic light. He did not bring an army; he brought only Marcus and Thomas. Dorian moved through the crowd with the terrifying, fluid grace of an apex predator. The wealthy politicians instinctively parted for him, completely paralyzed by the sheer, deeply masculine aura of absolute danger he projected. He walked directly up to Elias Vance. The prosecutor’s smile vanished entirely, his rosy complexion draining to a sickly white. “Westbrook,” Vance gasped, taking a nervous step backward. “You cannot be here. I am a federal agent.” Dorian did not raise his voice. “I am here. Mr. Vance.”
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