Chapter 4
Camille realized her aggressive approach was a catastrophic error. She instantly softened her posture, drawing upon years of high-society conditioning. She stepped closer to Malcolm, ensuring the warm light illuminated her flawless, rosy skin and the brilliant diamonds at her ears.
Camille met Malcolm’s eyes with a small, reassuring smile, projecting an aura of maternal wisdom and sophisticated grace.
“Children need a fresh start,” Camille said.
Her voice was gently persuasive, laced with a synthetic sympathy that echoed falsely against the ivory-paneled walls. She reached out, her fingers hovering near Malcolm’s tailored dark sleeve, though she stopped short of touching him. Her eyes frantically searched his angular expression for any sign of approval, any indication that he accepted her psychological justification for erasing his late wife.
He gave absolutely none. The cold, watchful eyes of the Mafia boss remained as unyielding as absolute zero.
Seeing his impassive face, the corners of Camille’s reassuring smile became slightly rigid. The muscles in her jaw tightened as the suffocating silence of the dining hall pressed in on her. Every guest was watching, waiting to see how the patriarch would judge his future queen.
Down by their knees, Lucy finally found her voice.
The six-year-old girl, her dark hair and fair skin a haunting reflection of the woman in the photograph, looked directly up at her towering father.
“Should I stop looking like Mommy?”
Her voice was small, sincere, and utterly heartbreaking. Her little chin drew inward as she waited for an answer, her hand still fiercely holding the bottom of the silver frame against the marble mantel. She genuinely believed that if her mother's face made the guests uncomfortable, her own face must be equally unwelcome in the bright, luminous mansion.
The question struck the room like a physical blow. Several hardened men at the dining tables lowered their eyes, unable to witness the raw, innocent agony of the child.
Malcolm’s cold expression fractured. For a fraction of a second, the terrifying Mafia boss vanished, replaced entirely by a devastated father. The rigid lines of his sharply defined jaw softened dramatically toward the little girl.
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He slowly lowered his towering frame, bending at the waist. He reached out with his right hand, the artistic tattoos across his knuckles flexing smoothly. He settled his large, warm hand gently over Lucy’s tiny, trembling fingers. With effortless strength, he secured the portrait firmly against the marble mantelpiece, a silent, absolute promise that it would never be moved.
"Do you think there is anything in this world more beautiful than the face you wear?" Malcolm asked softly, his deep voice carrying a profound, aching tenderness meant only for his daughter.
