The grand ballroom buzzed with conversation, the clinking of champagne glasses, and the steady hum of a live orchestra. Chandeliers bathed the room in golden light. Away from the center of the gala, Thomas stood in a secluded corner with Lizzie, Arthur, and Ada, speaking in hushed tones with the Solomon family. Business had turned tense—disagreements, sharp words exchanged. No one noticed Charlie slip away.

It wasn’t until a lull in the argument that Lizzie’s head snapped up, her mother’s instinct kicking in. Her eyes darted around the room, searching—until panic set in. “Charlie?” she called, voice sharp, desperate.

Thomas’ body went rigid. His sharp blue eyes, always cold and calculating, filled with something rare—fear. Arthur swore, scanning the room. “Where the fuck is he?”

The Shelby family shifted in an instant. The air turned heavy. Alfie, standing nearby, took in the situation, his rough voice cutting through the tension. “Right, then. We find the lad. Now.”

They moved swiftly, weaving through the sea of guests. Thomas’ mind raced—kidnapping, a rival gang, retribution. Twenty minutes passed. Lizzie’s panic clawed at her throat. The once-grand gala now felt suffocating.

Then, from the grand staircase, a figure emerged.

A broad-shouldered Russian—one of Alfie’s trusted men—descended, Charlie’s small hand in his grasp. The boy was unharmed, at ease, his face calm. The man pointed toward Thomas, Lizzie, and the others before releasing Charlie’s hand.

Lizzie gasped, rushing forward, pulling Charlie into her arms, holding him so tightly as if he might vanish again. Arthur ran a hand through his hair, exhaling. “Jesus Christ, kid, you gave us a fuckin’ heart attack.”

Charlie blinked up at him, unfazed. “I was just looking around.”

Thomas crouched down, gripping Charlie’s shoulders. His voice was low, firm.

“Next time you want to look around… you stay where I can see you. Understood?” Charlie nodded.

Alfie smirked, clapping a heavy hand on Thomas’ back. “Well, that was a fuckin’ disaster, eh?"