Chapter 3
The crackling of the carved marble fireplace seemed deafening in the profound, suffocating silence of the dining hall. Isadora’s face, previously flushed with wine and the triumph of the evening, drained of all color until her rosy skin turned the shade of ash. Her diamond earrings trembled slightly as a subtle, uncontrollable shake took over her body.
Brennan did not break eye contact with her. He slowly raised his tattooed hand, resting his knuckles on the polished walnut table. The silence stretched until it became agonizing, the elite guests holding their collective breath.
"Are you all waiting for my permission to leave my home?" Brennan asked, his deep, low voice echoing across the long table. He didn't look at the guests; his cold, perceptive eyes remained entirely fixed on his fiancée.
The question was a direct command. Instantly, the scraping of velvet dining chairs against the hardwood floor sounded like thunder. Dozens of capos, crime bosses, and politicians scrambled to their feet, abandoning their fine porcelain plates and crystal stemware. They moved with a hurried, terrified silence, practically sprinting toward the grand double doors of the dining room. No one offered their goodbyes or dared to look back.
Within two minutes, the massive, luxurious room was entirely empty, save for the four of them: Brennan, Isadora, Amelie, and young Sophie. The heavy mahogany doors clicked shut, echoing with a hollow finality.
"Brennan, darling, please," Isadora whispered, her voice cracking as the reality of her isolation set in. She reached out across the table, her engagement ring flashing in the candlelight. "The child is confused. She’s traumatized from her mother's passing! Her mind is playing cruel tricks on her!"
Brennan slowly lowered his hand from the table. He tightened his protective stance, ensuring Amelie and Sophie were completely shielded behind his broad shoulders.
"Do you believe trauma can manufacture the memory of a poisoner's vial?" Brennan asked. His slow, controlled pauses carried the weight of a death sentence.
"The maid is manipulating her!" Isadora stammered, pulling her hand back as if the table had burned her. "She probably told the girl to say that! She hates me! She’s been trying to ruin this engagement since the day I moved in! She wants your money, Brennan!"
Amelie stood her ground, though her knees felt weak. She kept her hands gently resting on Sophie's small shoulders, refusing to defend herself. The truth was already standing in the room, holding onto her apron; it didn't need her protection.
"Do you think I am blind to the venom you disguise as a cure?" Brennan asked, stepping slowly around the edge of the table. "Is burying me the only way you could secure absolute control of this syndicate?"
"It wasn't like that!" Isadora shrieked, losing her aristocratic composure entirely. "She was weak! She was holding you back! I am strong enough to stand beside a king! I did it for us!"
"Did you think I would crown a woman whose hands are stained with the blood of my wife?" Brennan asked, taking another slow, deliberate step toward her.
"You need me!" Isadora sobbed, real tears of panic finally spilling over her cheeks as she backed away, her emerald gown catching on a velvet chair. "My family controls the ports! If you touch me, my father will start a war that will burn this city to the ground!"
"Do you think the threat of a war frightens me more than a traitor sleeping in my bed?" Brennan inquired, tilting his head slightly, the cold, perceptive eyes narrowing into dark, lethal slits.
May you like
He didn't wait for her to process the absolute lack of mercy in his gaze. He reached into the inner pocket of his tailored dark suit, his refined hand tattoos catching the golden light, and withdrew a heavy, encrypted mobile phone.
"Are you waiting in the grand foyer, Marcus?" Brennan asked into the receiver. He paused, listening to his underboss. "Will you bring two men into the dining room immediately?"
