Chapter 6
The bright, natural sunlight of the portrait studio provided no warmth to the two bound prisoners. Damon was hauled roughly to his feet by the lead bodyguard, his tailored trousers now stained with dark paint and his own blood. He staggered, entirely reliant on the bodyguard's iron grip to stay upright.
"Viviana, listen to me," Damon begged, tears cutting clean tracks through the paint on his face. "I am sorry. I lost my temper. I swear on my life, I will never touch Oliver again. Just let me stay. I'll be quiet. I'll stay out of the business!"
"You were never in the business," Viviana reminded him, her tone completely clinical. She walked over to the ruined family portrait still resting on the easel. She looked at the dark streaks obscuring her painted face. "But you recently tried to be, didn't you, Damon?"
Damon froze. His sobbing halted instantly, and his fair, rosy skin turned a sickly, translucent white beneath the paint.
"I... I don't know what you mean," Damon stammered, avoiding her gaze.
"Do not insult my intelligence," Viviana whispered, turning to face him. "You are a coward, Damon. You would never have dared to raise a hand to me, or to my son, unless you believed you had external protection. Unless someone convinced you that my reign was coming to an end."
Rosalind’s eyes widened in sheer terror. She struggled against her restraints, looking at her son with frantic desperation. "Damon, don't say a word!"
"She knows, Mother!" Damon cried out, his nerve breaking entirely. He looked at Viviana, his chest heaving with panic. "Viviana, they approached me! I didn't seek them out! The Moretti family... they said if I helped them secure the southern shipping ports, they would back me in a coup! They promised me control of the family!"
"You idiot!" Rosalind shrieked, her aristocratic facade completely destroyed. "You sold us out!"
Viviana remained perfectly still. The confirmation of the betrayal did not shock her; she had suspected the Moretti syndicate was probing her borders for months. But hearing that her own husband had conspired with them to usurp her throne—and potentially endanger her son—ignited a dark, terrifying fire behind her cold eyes.
"The Morettis," Viviana said slowly, testing the name on her tongue. "You thought a rival syndicate would hand you an empire? You thought they respected you? They were using you as a Trojan horse, Damon. The moment you opened the gates, they would have slaughtered you and taken Oliver as a hostage."
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"I was trying to protect our family!" Damon wept, a pathetic, delusional excuse that echoed hollowly in the large room.
"You sold our family," Viviana corrected him, stepping inches away from his bleeding face. "And for that, there is no forgiveness."
