Chapter 3
The question hung in the bright, luminous air of the dining hall, sharp and interrogative. The absolute silence that had fallen over the fifty guests created a physical, suffocating pressure. The tall ivory candles flickering inside their brass candelabras seemed to be the only things moving in the entire, opulent space.
Ada stood frozen beside Matthias’s chair. Her expressive eyes, darkened and puffy from the tears she had shed under Coralie’s cruelty, widened in sheer panic. She met Matthias’s cold, unwavering gaze.
Her delicate fingers tightened visibly around the edges of the silver serving tray, her knuckles turning bone-white. She struggled to process the danger she was in. She knew what Coralie would do to her if she spoke about the orphanage. She knew the threats hanging over her head. But looking into Matthias's perceptive eyes, feeling the sheer weight of his masculine presence demanding the truth, Ada felt entirely trapped.
She steadied a trembling breath, her chest rising and falling rapidly beneath the cinched waist of her creased black dress.
"I cooked there," Ada answered, her American accent fragile but devastatingly clear in the silent room. "Before the fire."
The admission sent a quiet ripple of shock through the nearest capos. Matthias’s jaw tightened imperceptibly. He had known Ada was a survivor, but he had never connected her to the specific, distinctive meal he had been served during his inspection of the charity wards.
Before Matthias could press further, Coralie shifted smoothly in her velvet dining chair. Her luxurious emerald evening gown rustled softly. She recognized the catastrophic danger of the moment. The polished facade she had maintained all evening was suddenly under severe threat, and she needed to control the narrative before the mafia boss dismantled it completely.
Coralie glanced briefly toward six-year-old Theo, a sharp, venomous warning flashing in her eyes to ensure the boy kept his mouth shut. Then, she met Matthias’s gaze.
A sympathetic, reassuring smile appeared on her lips, but it arrived a fraction of a second too late. The delay was microscopic, but to a man like Matthias Vale, it was as loud as a gunshot.
"Faulty wiring," Coralie stated smoothly, her voice light and dripping with fabricated grief. "Such a tragedy. It is a blessing you were able to save the boy, darling."
She reached out for her crystal wine glass, attempting to project an aura of unbothered elegance.
But the tension was shattered not by Matthias, but by the small, quiet boy sitting to his right.
Theo, dressed in his navy suit, slowly turned his head. The six-year-old boy looked directly at Coralie, bypassing his father's imposing figure. His small fingers reached out and gripped the edge of his velvet dining chair until his knuckles turned white.
May you like
Theo’s voice was quiet, but it was incredibly clear, carrying a frightened, unshakable certainty that cut straight to the bone.
"You started that fire," Theo said.
