Chapter 4
Hugo finally broke. The dam holding back six months of terrifying silence shattered. The seven-year-old boy let out a ragged sob, the tears he had been fighting spilling over his eyelashes and streaming down his pale cheeks. He nodded frantically, his small hands reaching out to grab the lapels of Lawrence’s expensive dark suit.
“She said you wouldn't believe me!” Hugo cried, his voice hoarse from disuse, filling the grand dining hall. “She said you loved her now, and if I told you, she would put the bad medicine in my milk, just like she did to Mommy! I was scared, Daddy! I’m sorry!”
Lawrence closed his eyes for a fraction of a second. It was the only crack in his otherwise impenetrable armor, a microscopic display of the agony tearing through his chest. He pulled his son into a tight, protective embrace, pressing the boy’s face into his broad shoulder. His heavily tattooed hand gently stroked the back of Hugo’s head.
He stood up, lifting the boy effortlessly into his arms. He turned to Cleo.
“Will you accompany us to my private study, Cleo? Will you walk closely behind us?”
“Yes, sir. Right away,” Cleo replied. She quickly untied her white apron, letting it fall over the back of the champagne velvet chair, preparing to move through the house without the constraints of her serving attire.
Estelle panicked. Seeing Lawrence physically shield the boy and invite the maid into his inner sanctum meant she was losing her grip on the situation completely. She stepped in front of the heavy mahogany doors, blocking their path, her diamond earrings shaking as she spread her arms wide.
“Lawrence, stop! You are letting a child’s nightmare destroy our future! His mother died of a heart defect! The coroner’s report confirmed it! You saw the paperwork yourself! Why are you listening to this madness?”
Lawrence stopped. He held his sobbing son tightly against his chest. His cold, observant eyes bored into Estelle, stripping away the layers of her beautiful facade to look at the monster hiding underneath.
“Do you expect me to value the ink on a corrupt coroner’s report over the tears of my own flesh and blood? Do you truly think my wealth cannot buy a false autopsy in this city?”
Estelle blinked, her mouth falling open slightly. “Are you... are you saying you knew the report was fake? Lawrence, if you knew it was fake, why didn't you look for the killer?”
“Who said I ever stopped looking, Estelle? Did you mistake my patience for ignorance?”
Estelle’s breath hitched. A profound chill swept through her body as the horrific realization dawned on her. The mafia boss had never stopped investigating his wife’s death. He had been playing a long, calculated game, and she had walked right into his trap.
“Step aside, Estelle,” Cleo said firmly, stepping up beside Lawrence. The housemaid’s softly oval face was hardened with determination. “You are blocking Mr. Crowe’s path.”
Estelle sneered, raising her hand as if to slap the maid across the face. “Don't you dare speak to me, you filthy little—”
Lawrence shifted his weight, his voice dropping to a lethal, vibrating baritone that shook the very air in the room.
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“Will you move away from that door, Estelle, or must I have my men physically drag you out of my way?”
Estelle slowly lowered her hand, her face completely drained of color. She stepped aside, pressing her back against the ivory wall panels as Lawrence, Hugo, and Cleo walked past her, leaving the glow of the crystal chandeliers behind as they stepped into the dark, echoing hallway of the mansion.
