Chapter 8
The silence in the grand dining hall stretched taut, a physical weight that pressed down upon the seated guests. The bright, airy colors of the room felt suddenly stark, exposing the raw, underlying brutality of the situation.
Bastian continued to hold his mother, his heavily tattooed hand gently stroking her back, while his cold, lethal eyes remained absolutely fixed on the woman across the table.
"Bastian, darling, please," Colette stammered, her American accent trembling uncontrollably. She took a stumbling step backward, her high heels catching on the thick patterned rug. The sculpted burgundy silk of her evening gown seemed to offer no armor against his penetrating stare. "The maid is lying! She hates me! She wants to ruin this dinner! She dressed your mother up like that just to make me look bad!"
"Is it your assertion that my mother is a prop, dressed in rags by a housemaid to execute a theatrical performance against you?" Bastian asked. His deep, low voice rolled through the quiet room, the measured pauses striking like a physical blow.
"Yes!" Colette cried, tears of panic and frustration finally spilling over her fair cheeks, ruining her pristine makeup. "She is a manipulative, lying servant! You cannot take her word over mine! I am your fiancée! I am the lady of this house!"
"Does the lady of a house secure her throne by drowning the matriarch in dishwater?" Bastian inquired, his perceptive eyes dissecting her false narrative with surgical precision.
"I didn't do it!" Colette shrieked, panic mutating into cornered, vicious entitlement. "You are embarrassing me in front of the entire commission! My father will not stand for this insult! If you humiliate me based on the ramblings of a senile old woman and a jealous maid, my family will declare war! They will shut down your eastern supply lines!"
"Will your father declare war?" Bastian asked, tilting his head with dangerous curiosity. The loose strands of wavy hair falling over his forehead contrasted violently with the absolute, apocalyptic death promised in his cold eyes. "Or will he thank me for returning his defective, cruel daughter before she caused a war he could not possibly win?"
Colette’s mouth dropped open. The color drained entirely from her lips. She realized she had absolutely no power left in the room. The alliance was dead, severed by her own psychopathic ambition.
"Get your hands off me!" Colette screamed as two massive men in tailored dark suits stepped forward from the shadows and grabbed her by the arms. She thrashed wildly, her silk gown twisting awkwardly around her legs. "You are choosing a servant and a crazy old bat over a queen! You are a fool, Bastian!"
"Are empires built by men who allow their mothers to be tortured in their own homes?" Bastian inquired, entirely unaffected by her venom.
He didn't wait for a response. He slowly turned his head, his gaze sweeping over the silent, paralyzed guests.
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"Is this engagement dinner concluded?" Bastian asked the room at large.
The question was a lethal command disguised as an inquiry. The guests immediately understood. Chairs scraped softly against the polished marble floors as the most powerful men and women in the American mafia stood up in unison. They simply turned and began a swift, silent exodus from the luminous dining hall, eager to escape the blast radius of the Boss's impending wrath.
