Chapter 6
The question hung in the bright, luminous air of the ballroom, heavy and suffocating as a physical weight. Corinne’s eyes darted wildly, searching the faces of the silent, terrified guests and the hardened capos standing along the perimeter. She found absolutely no mercy. The two bodyguards standing directly behind her shifted slightly, a silent reminder that she was entirely surrounded.
"Alistair, I... I don't know what you mean," Corinne stammered, her American accent slurring with panic. She pressed her back harder into the padded chair, desperately trying to create distance between herself and his intimidating, angular face. "It was just an expression! I was angry! I spoke without thinking!"
"My late wife," Alistair said, his deep voice vibrating with a terrifying, suppressed emotion. "Died in a car accident. On a rainy highway. Alone."
He slowly stood up to his full height, his broad shoulders blocking the chandelier light.
"She did not... disappear," Alistair continued softly. "People who die in accidents... do not disappear. People who are murdered... disappear."
A collective gasp swept through the remaining inner circle of the Mafia family. The official narrative of the previous matriarch's death had stood unchallenged for three years. To openly suggest assassination in the middle of a crowded gala was a paradigm-shifting event.
"You are twisting my words!" Corinne shrieked, her voice echoing shrilly across the marble floors. "I meant that Daphne would be fired! That she would be gone! You are being paranoid, Alistair!"
"I am a man who has survived... by listening carefully to the arrogance of my enemies," Alistair replied coldly. He turned his head slightly, looking at his lead capo. "Clear the room. Every guest who is not blood or inner circle leaves now. Confiscate all phones."
The tactical mobilization of the bodyguards was instantaneous. The white American guests were herded aggressively toward the exits, their devices seized to ensure no word of the interrogation reached the streets. Within two minutes, the massive ballroom was empty, save for Alistair, Corinne, and a dozen heavily armed capos.
"Alistair, please, my family will not stand for this!" Corinne threatened, desperately trying to play her final political card. "The Vale syndicate brought you the southern shipping routes! We built this alliance! If you interrogate me like a common criminal, my father will declare war!"
"Your father," Alistair murmured, adjusting the cuffs of his tailored suit, "will receive your head in a box... if I find out he was involved."
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Corinne broke down into hysterical sobs. The reality of her total, irreversible ruin crashed down upon her. She had played a dangerous, jealous game with a three-year-old child, and in her arrogant rage, she had accidentally unlocked a door that was going to burn her entire world to the ground.
"Take her to the basement," Alistair ordered his men, his voice entirely devoid of human empathy. "Strap her to the chair. And bring me the medical examiner’s file on my late wife’s accident. We are going to have a very long, very painful conversation about exactly what happened on that highway."
