The Almighty Dominance novel Chapter 813

It never landed. Preston Tiffany shoved him back so hard he hit the next table and sent the glasses ringing.

"Hey! Hey! Who do you think you are? This is a Tiffany party!" "You want a fight? Pick on somebody your own size."

"Stay out of this, fat boy, or you'll be sorry."

"Ha! Sorry? Come on, then. Show me what you've got!"

The man swung. Preston ducked it, clumsy but lucky, and drove a fist into his nose. The man staggered back. Blood ran down over his lip and onto his white collar.

For one second, the ballroom was quiet.

Then the coast began to clap.

Preston turned round slowly with his fists up, and took it all in. It was the best thing that had ever happened to him.

"You picked the wrong Tiffany, mister."

The man wiped his nose with the back of his hand and looked at the blood on it.

"Do you know who I am?"

"I don't care who you are! Get out, while you can still walk!"

The man smiled with red teeth.

"You've got guts, fat boy. I'll give you that." He put his dark glasses back on. "Don't run away before I come back."

He walked out, and Julian with him.

Preston laughed, loud, for the room.

"What a clown. Did you see him? I could take ten like him before dessert."

"Preston!" Patricia was on her feet in the front row. She had lost her face an hour ago, and here was a way to win some back. "That is what a real man looks like."

She turned, slowly, so the whole room would follow her eyes, all the way to the back wall.

"Not someone who stands in a corner and watches while his wife is grabbed. Did you even put down your plate, Alex?"

Laughter, again, the easy kind.

Serena did not laugh. When that hand came up at her face, her husband had not moved one step. She was angry with herself for minding.

Alex looked down at the plate in his hands, surprised to find it there.

"I was holding the rolls," he explained.

"You were holding the rolls," Patricia repeated.

"Somebody has to." He held the plate out toward her, politely. "Would you like one? You've had a hard night. You were on the floor for a long time."

Half the room choked into their napkins. Patricia went scarlet and sat down hard.

Preston slapped the table. "Leave the idiot alone, cousin. You need a man for a job like that. If that clown comes back, I'll—"

The great doors banged open.

"Seal the doors!"

The curly-haired man was back, and big men in wet coats came in behind him, ten, twelve, more. Two put their backs to the doors.

Julian Pryce walked in last, with his hands in his pockets, smiling.

Preston stepped forward like a hero. "What? Back for another one?"

Then he saw how many there were, and his voice ran out.

"Surround them."

The men made a ring round the podium. Preston's mouth went dry. Weren't fights supposed to be one against one?

"You'd better watch it. Do you know who I am? My grandmother is the Baroness Imelda Tiffany!"

"So what?" The curly-haired man took off his dark glasses and folded them away. "My name is Connor Russell. My father is Victor Russell."

The name went through the ballroom like cold water. Victor Russell owned the harbour, and everything that came in or out of it after dark. The men who crossed him were never found.

Preston's red face went the color of milk.

"You… you're Victor Russell's son?"

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