Chapter 6
The child’s quiet words fell like an executioner’s blade onto the polished walnut table. The innocence of the statement laid bare a monstrosity so deep and calculated that it froze the blood in the veins of every hardened criminal in the room. Marietta had not just murdered the boss's wife; she had buried her in the garden while the victim's young son watched, terrifying him into a six-month silence.
Callan’s cold eyes snapped to his son. He looked at Wyatt for a brief, incredibly still beat. The entire room seemed to hold its breath as the horrifying reality of the child's statement sank into the mafia boss's consciousness. His son had been carrying the weight of his mother's murder alone.
Then, Callan slowly shifted his gaze toward Marietta.
His head followed his eyes in a slight, deliberate turn. The muscles in his sharply defined jaw firmed almost imperceptibly, setting into unyielding granite. His mouth became completely still, a terrifying void that swallowed all the warmth in the room.
He held Marietta’s eyes with a cold, furious, unwavering stare. He did not yell. He did not ask a question immediately. He simply stared at her, stripping away every layer of her satin and diamonds, exposing the rot underneath.
Every guest remained perfectly attentive and utterly motionless, terrified to even draw a breath, waiting for the execution to begin.
"Are you all waiting for a formal invitation to leave my home?" Callan asked, his deep, low voice echoing across the long table. He didn't look at the guests; his cold eyes remained entirely fixed on his lover.
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 heavy silk curtains and 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: Callan, Marietta, Nadine, and young Wyatt. The heavy mahogany doors clicked shut, echoing with a hollow, terrifying finality.
"Callan, darling, please," Marietta whispered, her voice cracking as the reality of her isolation set in. She reached out across the table, her hands shaking violently. "The boy is lying! He has always hated me! He is making up stories to get rid of me!"
Callan slowly reached down, picking up the muddy gold ring from the white napkin. He rubbed the dirt between his thumb and forefinger.
"Do you believe my son possesses the malice to invent his mother's burial?" Callan asked. His slow, controlled pauses carried the weight of a death sentence.
"He is traumatized!" Marietta stammered, pulling her hand back as if the table had burned her. "His mother abandoned him! His mind is broken! He is just repeating what the maid told him to say!"
"Did you think I would never notice the fear in my own blood when you entered a room?" Callan inquired, stepping slowly around the edge of the table, his broad shoulders dominating the space.
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"It wasn't like that!" Marietta shrieked, losing her aristocratic composure entirely. "She was weak, Callan! She was going to take him and leave you! I saved you from her! I am strong enough to stand beside a king!"
"Is burying my wife in my rose garden your definition of loyalty?" Callan asked, taking another slow, deliberate step toward her side of the table.
