Chapter 8
The close-up shifted instantly to Gareth. The bright, luminous colors of the dining hall felt like a harsh interrogation spotlight, emphasizing the lethal stillness that overtook the Mafia boss.
His cold, observant eyes dropped downward. They settled briefly, with agonizing, terrifying focus, on the heavy white plaster cast resting on Beatrice’s arm. He absorbed the sheer malice required to inflict such an injury on a fragile woman, the woman who had given him life. The rigid lines of his angular face remained unyielding, a silent promise of absolute, uncompromising retribution.
Then, he slowly shifted that gaze.
His eyes moved first, cutting across the gold-rimmed porcelain and crystal stemware, locking directly onto Delphina. A slight, predatory turn of his head followed.
His jaw firmed, the muscles flexing visibly beneath his extremely short, neatly trimmed stubble. His mouth became completely still, settling into a hard, unforgiving line. The warmth vanished entirely from his expression, replaced by the dark, empty void of an executioner.
He held Delphina’s eyes in cold, unwavering silence.
The visual standoff suspended the dining hall in a state of impending doom. Every single guest in the massive, opulent room remained perfectly attentive, facing him, paralyzed by the public unmasking of the future bride. The silence was deafening, ringing in the ears of everyone present. No one dared to breathe, waiting for the apex predator to strike.
The prompt ended on his cold, unwavering stare, leaving the room trapped in a suffocating vacuum of terror.
Delphina felt her knees go weak. The sculpted satin of her evening gown seemed to offer no armor against his penetrating stare. The fair, rosy flush on her skin had turned to a sickly, translucent white. She realized that arguing against the visible injury and the clear, undeniable confession of the matriarch was a losing battle.
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"Gareth, please, she is confused!" Delphina finally shrieked, entirely abandoning her polished social poise. Her voice pitched up into a hysterical, defensive frequency. She pointed a shaking, diamond-clad finger at the elderly woman. "I didn't touch her! She tripped on the hem of her own dress! She is imagining things because she hates me!"
"Is it customary for a woman with a broken mind to invent the specific mechanics of an assault to slander her son's fiancée?" Gareth finally asked, his deep voice dropping into a register of pure, concentrated ice.
