Torvic watched Eric approach with the decanter in his hand, and, for a moment, he stupidly thought of throwing the contents in Zara’s face. However, firstly, the liquid would in all probability not even reach, and secondly, would she instead pour it over Tiffany’s face? The thought wasn’t worth thinking about. He took the decanter with both hands and shook all over. Flashes of scary images shot through his mind as to how devastating this evil liquid would be once it touched and devoured a person’s skin.

If he’d been handed a knife, he would have ended his own life, but he was too frightened to pour acid on his own face; not only would it hurt like nothing on earth, but he’d still be alive to see the consequences.

He turned to look at his handsome and favourite son, and he knew what she was about to ask him to do. Although he detested Zara and everything she stood for, he had to admire her. The innate cold expression and the demonic glint in her eyes were unique. She had all the characteristics of a ruthless leader.

‘You know what I want, Torvic, because if the shoe were on the other foot, you would do the same!’

Everyone watched in anticipation. Willie chuckled in excitement, Staffie’s stomach churned over, Mike and Joshua just stood there in amazement, but Zara – she didn’t move a muscle.

Neil and Shamus stood with their backs against the wall, their eyes glued to Zara. It was shocking how calm and deliberate she was, when conducting an act that would have grown men turning their eyes away.

‘Aw, come on. Please. This is sick. I can’t do it. He’s my son,’ he begged.

Torvic was resigned. The fire had gone from his eyes, and the anger and the frustration had dissipated, leaving a sad, trembling, and pathetic wretch.

She stared motionlessly.

‘Please, I can’t. I just can’t do it.’

With one hand, she flipped the lid and tilted it slowly until the acid reached the neck of the bottle. One millimetre more and the acid would burn a hole in his granddaughter’s head.

Terrified she would hurt her, Torvic gave in. ‘Okay, I’ll do it.’

Flipping the lid from the container in his hands, he turned to face Alastair. ‘I’m so sorry, Son.’

Alastair’s eyes were now huge, as the realization had just caught up with him. ‘No! No! No!’ he screamed in a high-pitched, petrified, and blood-curdling voice. With his body jolting, as if he were in the electric chair, he cried like a girl.

Lance watched on in pleasure. This was a better form of retribution than he could ever have devised.

‘I’m sorry,’ repeated Torvic, shaking his head in submission.