Chapter 4
The cascading crystal chandeliers continued to bathe the room in their bright, airy light, but the engagement dinner was entirely ruined. The guests remained paralyzed in their champagne velvet chairs, watching the confrontation unfold with breathless terror. They were seasoned politicians and syndicate lieutenants, but none of them dared to intervene in a dispute of this magnitude.
Lucille stared up at Maxwell, her fair, rosy skin drained of all color, leaving her looking sickly and translucent. She gripped the fabric of her sculpted satin evening gown, her hands shaking violently.
"Are you struggling to find a suitable explanation, Lucille?" Maxwell finally asked.
His deep, low voice remained completely level. The measured pause between his words was a calculated instrument of psychological torture. He did not step toward her, but the sheer gravity of his presence pressed her against the wall.
"Maxwell, darling, please," Lucille gasped, her American accent pitching high and breathless with panic. "He is just a child! He has an overactive imagination! I found that gun in the study and told him it was a toy so he wouldn't be afraid! He is confused about what happened to your father!"
"Does a confused child invent the specific mechanics of a murder?" Maxwell inquired, his perceptive eyes narrowing into cold slits.
"The maid put him up to this!" Lucille cried, tears of sheer desperation welling in her eyes. She pointed a shaking, diamond-adorned finger at Anita. "She planted that weapon! She has been trying to poison him against me since the day I moved in! You cannot believe a servant over your future wife!"
Anita held her ground, her elegant posture unwavering despite the terror hammering in her chest. She instinctively wrapped her arm around Bobby, pulling the crying boy securely against her black maid dress, shielding him from the socialite's venomous panic.
"Would my son fabricate a nightmare to destroy the foundation of this family?" Maxwell asked, his voice echoing coldly off the ivory wall panels.
"Yes! He hates me!" Lucille shrieked, looking frantically around the room at the seated guests, silently begging someone—anyone—to intervene. But the elite crowd sat immobilized, their fair faces pale with shock, utterly unwilling to cross the mafia boss.
Maxwell slowly swept his gaze across the room, taking in the numerous guests sitting frozen at their polished walnut tables.
"Have you all located the exits, or do my men need to assist you?" Maxwell asked the room at large.
It was phrased as a question, but the command hidden within it was unmistakable and absolute. Chairs scraped violently against the polished hardwood and marble floors as the guests practically scrambled to their feet. There were no polite farewells, no lingering handshakes. Men in tailored suits and women in evening gowns fled the bright, elegant room with frantic urgency, eager to escape the blast radius of Maxwell Crowne’s wrath.
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Within ninety seconds, the expansive dining hall was completely empty, save for Maxwell, Lucille, Anita, and Bobby. The heavy mahogany doors slammed shut, sealing the room and locking Lucille inside with her greatest nightmare.
"Did you truly believe you could run a shadow operation in my own home and remain standing at my table?" Maxwell asked, turning his terrifying focus entirely back to the woman in the satin gown.
