Chapter 4
The opulent conservatory was suffocatingly quiet. The ivory candles burning in their gilded candelabras seemed to cast harsh, judgmental shadows over Celine’s luxurious emerald gown. The polished, reassuring smile that usually charmed the syndicate members had completely evaporated, leaving behind a feral mask of desperation and cornered panic.
Lucan slowly unbuttoned the center button of his tailored dark suit jacket. The movement was agonizingly deliberate, a physical manifestation of his complete, terrifying control over the situation.
As he let the heavy fabric fall open, the room seemed to hold its breath. He slowly turned his head, his dark eyes locking directly onto Celine.
"Celine," Lucan demanded, his voice a low, dangerous rumble that echoed off the glass walls. "Who weighted that basket?"
"That is an outrageous accusation!" Celine shouted, stepping forward, her diamond earrings swinging wildly. The aristocratic polish was completely gone. "She is a lying whore trying to ruin our evening, Lucan! I have never touched that filthy animal! It must have dragged the stones in itself! I have been entertaining your guests all evening!"
"Do you expect me to accept the premise that a four-month-old spaniel engineered its own drowning by loading river stones into a wicker basket?" Lucan asked, his deep voice slicing through her frantic excuses with effortless, measured authority.
"I am protecting this family!" Celine shrieked, backing away until her spine hit the edge of a carved walnut table. "The dog was a distraction! Miles spends all his time with it instead of focusing on his tutors! I am trying to mold him into a proper heir for this syndicate! I took control of the situation to secure his future!"
The confession echoed off the silk drapes, sealing her fate. She hadn't denied the act; she had merely attempted to justify it as a necessary disciplinary measure.
Celine’s smile tightened into a thin, cruel line. Realizing her lies were useless against the overwhelming evidence, she lifted her chin slightly, attempting to project an aura of untouchable aristocratic authority. She spoke as though discussing a trivial, unwanted holiday decoration rather than a living creature.
"It is just a dog, Lucan," Celine stated coldly, maintaining her defiant posture. "One less thing to feed. You are embarrassing me in front of our investors over a mutt. Have the maid dispose of it and let us return to the reception."
The sheer, audacious cruelty of her logic hung heavily in the bright, luminous air. She believed her political status made her completely immune to the consequences of her psychopathy.
Lucan’s jaw clenched so tightly the bone looked as though it might snap. The cold, unyielding armor of the mafia boss slammed firmly into place. He did not yell. He did not explode into violence. The quiet, deep, controlled manner in which he operated was far more terrifying than any shouted threat.
"Do you believe," Lucan began, speaking so slowly that every syllable landed like a physical blow across her face, "that I require the disciplinary advice of a woman who tortures animals behind my back?"
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"I am your fiancée!" Celine cried, her fair, rosy skin flushing a violent red. "I am the daughter of the Voss syndicate! You cannot treat me like a common criminal in front of your capos! I demand respect, Lucan!"
"Respect is earned," Lucan replied, his voice dropping into a lethal register. "And you have earned nothing but my absolute disgust."
