That immense ballroom remained perpetually engulfed by a state of stunned silence, the air so thick with the unspoken weight of Max’s demand. The face of Domingo, as always, was in a mask of pure, unadulterated hatred, a raw, visceral hatred that had contorted his aristocratic features and his eyes – seemingly so controlled – spun from the unshakeable gaze of Max, the pale, terrified faces of his family, to finally his own men, themselves statues, their guns still in their hands but with little move in their hands, suddenly trembling, they were in a bind, very firmly thrown out. Utterly and irrevocably crippled.Slowly, horribly, Domingo sank to his knees. The fabric of his suit, tailor made and expensive, wrinkled as he crawled on his knees, creasing along with his humiliating movements. At his feet, his hands quivering as he reached for Max's foot, he took one of Max's perfectly clean and shiny black shoes off, the leather cool and smooth against his skin. With a loud growl, a sound

Now that louder and closer, the sirens began to roar, the rumble of the engines tones from the trees, the air pulsing with dark, scary pulses as the lights flashed through the trees. Minutes later police cars lined up on the edge of the mansion, opening their doors, the uniformed officers pulling them out.The Donxiote family, including Lorenzo and Isabella, were led away in handcuffs, their faces grim, their earlier arrogance replaced by a chilling despair. Domingo, bruised and broken, his face a bloody mess, was hauled to his feet by two officers.“You’ll regret this, Roland!” Domingo spat, his voice hoarse, his eyes burning with a promise of retribution that even now, in defeat, refused to die. “I’ll get out! I’ll have my revenge!”Sarah, who had rushed out in the middle of her father and tried to leave, was standing here with her hand on her shoulder, a stony slap running across Domingo’s battered face, finally slapping, and like an instant hit.“Rot in hell Domingo, ” she said ag

Trisha brushed crumbs from her dress, completely unfazed by his corporate jargon. “Oh, right! The business deal.” She picked up the slightly squashed scone from the counter, holding it up like a precious artifact. “It’s right here! This bakery. It’s failing. Terribly. A tragedy, really. And it’s a crime, Max. A crime against humanity not to save these pastries.” She picked up a slightly squashed croissant from a display case, its flaky layers looking a little too flat. “Taste this. It’s… it’s got potential. Hidden potential, like a diamond in the rough. Or a very, very rough diamond.” She offered it to him, her eyes sparkling with an almost childlike enthusiasm.Max raised an eyebrow, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his lips. He took the croissant, examining it. It was clearly past its prime. “You tricked me.” It wasn’t a question, but a statement of fact, delivered with a hint of resigned amusement.Trisha’s smile widened, unrepentant, a flash of pure mischief. “Maybe a little

He ended up with a few more successful rolls and was sort of feeling pretty accomplished. Then when he was trying to flip a very large piece of dough he turned it too much on the counter and instead of it landing safely on the counter, it flew up, then landed on the counter, and sent out a soft *splat* right on Trisha 's nose.“Hey! ”Trisha cried, with daggers in her eyes and a piece of dough poking through her forehead. “That’s not in the market research brief! ”Max suddenly laughed, a kind of unburdened laughter that filled the little kitchen with laughter. “Yeah! I’m sorry! That was an unexpected... occupational hazard! ”He reached out, his thumb squeezing the dough off her nose, leaving his fingers for a while, accepting this intimacy in silence.Trisha laughed, her own face muddy with flour and her eyes bright, “It’s experiential learning! You’re getting the whole bakery experience, Max. Dough in the face, flour in the hair... The works. ” They quarreled, making some rather ridi

Max stepped forward, his movements flowing and hardly audible. But it put him on notice. He leaned between Henderson and Trisha, silent and unsympathetic; a barrier to keep out what was clearly growing tension. In his calm, almost conversational voice, he went on cutting through the growing tension like a razor blade, forcing Henderson away from his phone, clenching his thumb in the middle of a call. “Before you make that call, Mr. Henderson,” Max said, his tone even, devoid of any discernible emotion, “perhaps you should consider the implications of involving certain… associates. It might prove to be a rather inconvenient decision for you. And for them. A decision with… far-reaching consequences.”He reached into his pocket and pulled out a phone he’d designed himself. A sharp, minimalistic device that seemed to buzz wistfully, compared with Henderson’s rugged handset. He didn’t make a call. The last thing he did was look at Henderson. Just hit the screen a few times. His thumb was m