Chapter 4
The camera angle shifted to a tight close-up on Daphne.
The bright, clear lighting illuminated every detail of her movie-star beauty—the expressive brows drawn together in deep distress, the delicate cheekbones pale with fear, and the loose, elegant chignon remaining perfectly polished despite her internal panic.
Daphne looked directly toward Holden. She bypassed the furious, warning glares being shot at her by Lenora and held the terrifying, perceptive gaze of the Mafia boss.
Her inner brows lifted helplessly, an expression of profound vulnerability and quiet agony. Moisture gathered rapidly along her lower eyelids, shining in the golden candlelight. Her full natural lips trembled slightly as she tried to form the words.
If she spoke the truth, Lenora would undoubtedly try to destroy her. But looking into Holden Ravenshaw's eyes, Daphne realized that lying to him carried a far more absolute, fatal consequence.
Maintaining direct, unwavering eye contact with Holden, Daphne made her choice.
“He buried your wife.”
Daphne answered in a fragile, soft voice. It was breathless, yet the words carried clearly across the dead silent room, shattering the elegant illusion of the evening like a hammer against glass. The American accent was delicate, but the truth was an absolute, devastating detonation.
A collective, stifled gasp rippled through the gathered relatives and associates. To bring the man who had buried the boss's late wife to an engagement dinner celebrating his new marriage was a horrifying, deeply disturbing breach of protocol.
Across the polished walnut table, Lenora’s fair, rosy skin drained of color. She realized the narrative was slipping rapidly from her manicured grasp. She needed to immediately reassert her control and paint the situation as a tragic, confused hallucination of an old man.
Before Lenora could open her mouth to shriek a denial, the camera angle shifted to a tight close-up of Walter.
The seventy-four-year-old caretaker stood under the blinding spotlight of the golden chandeliers. His fair skin was lined with age and profound sorrow. He had carried the terrifying secret for a year, threatened with execution by the beautiful woman standing across the table if he ever breathed a word of what he had seen.
Walter looked directly into Holden’s cold, observant eyes.
The Mafia boss did not look away. He offered no threat, only an unyielding demand for the truth.
Walter’s lips pressed tightly together briefly. He swallowed hard, gathering every ounce of his remaining courage.
“The coffin was empty.”
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The confession emerged in a thin, unsteady voice, cracking with emotion and sheer terror. Walter’s chin lowered slightly, deeply ashamed of his cowardice in hiding the truth, but he maintained direct eye contact with the towering Mafia boss.
The absolute, terrifying implication of the caretaker's words crashed over the dining hall. The late wife of the Mafia boss was not resting in the family plot. The closed-coffin funeral had been a complete, orchestrated sham.
