Chapter 4
The silence that gripped the luminous dining room was absolute, heavy enough to crush the breath from the lungs of everyone present. The tall ivory candles continued to flicker inside their crystal hurricane holders, their flames dancing merrily, blissfully ignorant of the catastrophe that had just shattered the engagement dinner. The bright, airy light felt suddenly stark and interrogative, pinning Cressida like a specimen beneath a microscope.
Cressida’s rosy skin drained of all color, leaving her looking sickly and translucent. Her manicured hands trembled violently where they rested against the sculpted silk of her gown. She opened her mouth to speak, to scream a denial, to call the child a liar, but her vocal cords were paralyzed by the sheer, overwhelming terror of the man standing before her.
Atticus did not explode into the violent rage for which he was feared throughout the criminal underworld. The stillness of his muscular, masculine frame was infinitely more dangerous. He tilted his head a fraction of an inch, his dark hair catching the golden glow of the chandeliers.
"Is there a reason you are struggling to find your voice, Cressida?" Atticus asked.
His deep, low voice remained completely level. The measured pause between his words was a calculated instrument of psychological torture. He did not let go of Evan’s hand.
"Atticus, darling, please," Cressida finally gasped, her American accent pitching high and breathless with panic. "He is just a child! He has an overactive imagination! He doesn't know what he's saying!"
"Does a six-year-old possess the imagination required to invent such a specific and damning accusation?" Atticus inquired, his perceptive eyes narrowing into cold slits.
"He hates me!" Cressida cried, pointing a shaking, diamond-adorned finger at the little boy. "He knows I want to send him to boarding school! He is making this up to ruin our evening!"
Maren’s hand tightened protectively on Evan’s shoulder. She glared at the socialite, her soft features hardening with a fierce, maternal instinct. Evan shrank back slightly against his father’s leg, overwhelmed by the shouting, but Atticus’s firm grip kept him anchored and safe.
"Would my son fabricate a lie to destroy the foundation of this family?" Atticus asked, his voice echoing off the carved walnut paneling.
"Yes!" Cressida shrieked, tears of sheer desperation welling in her eyes. She looked frantically around the room at the seated guests, silently begging someone—anyone—to intervene. But the elite crowd sat immobilized, their fair faces pale with shock, utterly unwilling to cross the mafia boss.
Atticus slowly swept his gaze across the room, taking in the thirty guests sitting frozen at their white damask tables.
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"Should our guests be subjected to the resolution of a private family dispute?" Atticus asked the room at large.
It was phrased as a question, but the command hidden within it was unmistakable. Chairs scraped violently against the marble and hardwood floors as the guests practically scrambled to their feet. There were no polite farewells, no lingering handshakes. Men in tailored suits and women in evening gowns fled the bright, elegant room with frantic urgency, eager to escape the blast radius of Atticus Rowan’s wrath. Within moments, the grand dining hall was entirely empty, save for the four figures standing at the head table.
