Victor cursed and barked orders at his men, but panic had already entered their ranks.
Cass took them apart without anger. That was what frightened Marcus most. There was no rage in her face, no wildness in her movements. She fought with the cold discipline of someone who had learned long ago that emotion could get people killed.
One attacker lunged toward a terrified family near the window.
Cass intercepted him before he reached them. A twist of his wrist. A sharp movement of her shoulder. He collapsed against a table, stunned and helpless.
Another tried to circle behind her.
She saw his reflection in a polished tray and turned just in time, sweeping his legs out from beneath him.
The guests watched from the floor in disbelief.
Marcus watched with something deeper.
Recognition.
Not of her face, but of her training.
There were only a few places in the world that produced people like Cassandra Mercer.
And most of them did not let their ghosts retire peacefully.