Chapter 4
The dinner service resumed in a state of suspended animation. The crystal glasses clinked, and the silver cutlery scraped against porcelain, but the joyous, airy atmosphere had been permanently fractured. The golden light from the tiered chandeliers felt sharp, illuminating the extreme discomfort of the elite guests. They ate mechanically, their eyes darting nervously toward the head table.
Declan paid absolutely no attention to the room. His cold, observant eyes were focused entirely on Ruth Bennett. He ate the homemade soup with a quiet reverence, his tattooed fingers resting lightly on the cream damask linens.
“Do you still bake the cherry pies on Tuesdays?” Declan asked, leaning slightly toward the elderly woman.
Ruth’s face brightened, a genuine, warm smile spreading across her fair, rosy skin. “Every single Tuesday, Declan. Though the neighborhood has changed so much, I still have a few of the old regulars who come in just for a slice. You used to eat half a pie by yourself before you even started your homework.”
“Did I ever leave you a single crumb?” Declan asked, a rare, genuine softness touching the corners of his mouth.
Colette sat rigidly opposite them, her engagement ring feeling like a heavy, useless weight on her finger. She could not stand being ignored, nor could she bear the silent judgment radiating from the other tables. She forced a bright, brittle smile onto her face and raised her wine glass.
“It really is such a charming story, Declan,” Colette interrupted, her voice entirely too loud for the intimate conversation. “But we really must keep the evening moving. The auctioneer is waiting for my signal to begin the bidding on the imported artwork.”
Declan did not look at her. He took another slow spoonful of soup.
“Is art more important than gratitude?” Declan asked the air, his deep voice carrying effortlessly across the table.
Colette’s jaw tightened, her fair skin flushing an angry, embarrassed pink. “Of course not, darling. But we have a schedule to maintain. The guests are expecting entertainment.”
Declan slowly placed his silver spoon down onto the porcelain saucer. He lifted his head, his thick, slightly wavy hair catching the luminous light, and finally leveled his piercing gaze at his fiancée.
“Are they not sufficiently entertained by your hospitality?” Declan asked.
Colette swallowed hard, her mouth suddenly dry. She looked desperately toward Willa, who was silently refilling the water glasses nearby.
“Willa, tell the auctioneer we need another fifteen minutes,” Colette ordered sharply, eager to exert control over someone she deemed beneath her.
Willa paused, the heavy crystal pitcher resting securely in her hands. She looked at Colette, then her expressive eyes flicked toward the mafia boss, waiting for confirmation.
“Did I authorize a change to the schedule, Willa?” Declan asked quietly.
“No, sir, you did not,” Willa replied, her voice soft but entirely steady.
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“Then why would you leave the room?” Declan asked, his eyes remaining locked on his fuming fiancée.
Willa offered a small, polite nod and resumed pouring the water, leaving Colette completely stripped of her authority in front of her own carefully curated audience.
