Chapter 2
The soft, elegant warmth of the chandeliers suddenly felt sharp and interrogative. Celina, ever hyper-aware of Lucian’s micro-expressions, immediately noticed the sudden stillness of his spoon and the intense focus he directed toward the housemaid.
She turned gracefully, her sculpted satin gown rustling against the ivory upholstered chair. She met Lucian’s cold, observant eyes with a perfectly practiced, affectionate smile.
"The chef’s latest creation," Celina announced, her American accent dripping with casual, manufactured pride.
She gave a small, satisfied smile, offering the lie with the effortless ease of a woman accustomed to controlling the narrative. Her eyes flicked across Lucian’s face, checking to see if he accepted the explanation, searching for any sign that the deception had worked. When his expression remained an unreadable, chiseled mask, Celina briefly shifted her gaze. She shot Della a sharp, terrifying warning look—a silent, venomous promise of ruin if the maid dared to contradict her.
Lucian did not miss the exchange. He missed absolutely nothing.
He slowly lowered the silver spoon, placing it deliberately onto the gold-rimmed saucer with a quiet, metallic clink. He followed the exact trajectory of Celina’s warning glance, tracking the fear it induced in the housemaid’s elegant posture.
Then, Lucian turned his broad shoulders, completely ignoring his fiancée, and looked directly into Della’s expressive eyes.
"Della. Who cooked this?" Lucian asked.
His deep, low voice was quiet and deliberate, the measured pause acting like a gravitational pull that sucked the air out of the grand dining hall. The sheer, commanding authority in his tone was absolute. He did not yell, but the danger radiating from his masculine frame was palpable.
The effect was instantaneous. Every single guest at the adjacent tables stopped eating. Forks hovered over plates; crystal wine glasses were lowered slowly to the cream damask tablecloths. The polite, affluent chatter died in an instant. Thirty pairs of eyes turned toward the head of the room, watching the mafia boss direct his terrifying focus onto a servant.
"Lucian, darling, please," Celina whispered, her smile straining at the edges as she attempted to reassert control. "We are in the middle of a celebration. The girl is busy."
"Did I ask for your permission to speak to my staff?" Lucian inquired, not breaking his intense eye contact with Della.
Celina’s jaw clicked shut, a flush of angry red creeping up her fair, rosy neck. She gripped the edge of the table, her diamond engagement ring digging painfully into her own finger.
Lucian remained completely still. He waited, letting the silence stretch until it became agonizing. He did not interrupt the quiet, nor did he repeat his question. He simply allowed the heavy, inescapable weight of his authority to press down on Della, demanding nothing less than the absolute truth.
Della swallowed hard, her throat painfully dry. She was terrifyingly aware of Celina’s glare burning into the side of her face. She was a mere employee in a house ruled by violence, and she knew that the socialite controlled all communication between the main household and the private guest wing where Beatrice lived. Celina had spent months isolating the grieving mother, repeatedly telling Lucian that Beatrice wanted distance and refused his visits.
But looking into Lucian’s eyes, tasting the sheer, unadulterated longing for his mother hidden beneath his cold exterior, Della found a desperate, reckless courage.
"Your mother," Della whispered.
The guests collectively gasped.
Della held Lucian’s gaze, her inner brows lifting slightly in a helpless, agonizing gesture of vulnerability. Moisture gathered rapidly along her lower eyelids, making her beautiful eyes shine brilliantly under the warm golden light.
May you like
"She sent it," Della finished, her voice soft and careful.
As she finished the confession, her slender fingers finally loosened their white-knuckled grip around the silver serving tray, though her elegant shoulders remained rigid, bracing for the inevitable backlash. The truth was out, and the engagement dinner was officially poised on the edge of an abyss.
