Chapter 7
The confession, however framed as an accident, hung heavily in the dim air of the study. Estelle Voss slid halfway down the mahogany bookcase, her knees giving out beneath the sculpted satin of her evening gown. She buried her face in her manicured hands, sobbing hysterically. Her makeup was entirely ruined, smearing black mascara over her fair, rosy skin. The facade of the elegant mafia queen had completely evaporated, leaving behind a desperate, cornered murderer.
Cleo turned her attention entirely to Hugo. She knelt beside the leather sofa, speaking softly to the boy, assuring him that he was safe and that the nightmare was finally ending. Hugo clung to her, burying his face in her dark dress, trying to block out the sounds of Estelle’s weeping.
Lawrence Crowe remained leaning against his heavy desk. He watched Estelle’s breakdown with the detached, clinical observation of a predator watching its prey bleed out. He unbuttoned the jacket of his tailored suit, pushing the fabric back to rest his heavily tattooed hands on his hips.
“Why are you crying, Estelle? Are you weeping out of genuine remorse for the life you stole, or are you simply mourning the loss of the luxurious lifestyle you believed you had secured?”
Estelle looked up, her eyes red and swollen. “I loved you! I did it because she was weak, Lawrence! She didn't understand the business! She was going to leave you and take Hugo away! I heard her on the phone! I protected you! I protected your empire!”
Lawrence’s sharp jaw tightened. The muscles in his neck flexed, making the small tattoo dance ominously against his collar.
“Did I ever ask you to protect my empire? Who gave you the ungodly delusion that I needed a mistress to fight my battles for me?”
Estelle crawled forward slightly on the Persian rug, reaching out toward his polished leather shoes. “You need a strong woman by your side! I can be that woman! I proved I would do anything for you! I killed for you! Spare me, Lawrence, please! I will do whatever you want!”
Lawrence stepped back smoothly, refusing to let her touch his shoes. His thick, slightly wavy hair cast a shadow over his forehead as he looked down at her pathetic form.
“Can a woman who threatens a seven-year-old child with poison truly be considered strong? Do you mistake cowardice and betrayal for strength, Estelle?”
Estelle gasped, the rejection hitting her like a physical blow. She realized there was no manipulating him. His mind had been made up long before the engagement dinner even began. This entire night had been a flawlessly executed theatrical performance designed to break her publicly and privately.
She turned her venomous gaze toward Cleo, who was still gently comforting Hugo.
“You think you’ve won, don't you?” Estelle spat, her voice laced with poison. “You think because you exposed me, he’s going to put that diamond on your finger? You’re a maid! You clean toilets! You’ll never be anything more than the help!”
Lawrence pushed off the desk, his towering frame casting a massive shadow over the room.
“Is this maid the center of your obsession, Estelle? Why do you concern yourself with the social standing of my staff when your own life is measured in mere minutes?”
Estelle’s eyes widened in absolute terror. “Minutes? Lawrence... what are you going to do to me? You can't just kill me! I have family! People will ask questions!”
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Lawrence’s deep, quiet voice filled the room, cold and final.
“Have you ever known me to leave a mess that could not be cleaned up? Do you truly believe the disappearance of a deceitful fiancée will disrupt my organization for even a single day?”
