Chapter 4
The cascading crystal chandeliers continued to bathe the ballroom in their bright, airy light, but the engagement gala had fundamentally shattered. The guests remained paralyzed in their champagne velvet chairs, watching the confrontation unfold with breathless terror. They were seasoned politicians and syndicate lieutenants, but none of them dared to intervene in a dispute of this magnitude.
Simone stared up at Warren, her fair, rosy skin drained of all color, leaving her looking sickly and translucent. She gripped the fabric of her sculpted champagne satin gown, her hands shaking violently.
"Are you struggling to find a suitable explanation, Simone?" Warren finally asked.
His deep, low voice remained completely level. The measured pause between his words was a calculated instrument of psychological torture. He did not step toward her, but the sheer gravity of his presence pressed her against the wall.
"Warren, darling, please," Simone gasped, her American accent pitching high and breathless with panic. "He is just a child! He misunderstood! I was trying to protect you! There have been rumors of a hit, and I was merely taking precautions with the staff! I didn't mean any harm!"
"Does protecting my life require the sacrifice of an innocent woman?" Warren inquired, his perceptive eyes narrowing into cold slits.
"She is a maid!" Simone cried, tears of sheer desperation welling in her eyes. "Her life is expendable! Yours is not! I was securing the future of this syndicate! You cannot humiliate me over a servant!"
Daphne held her ground, her elegant posture unwavering despite the terror hammering in her chest. She instinctively wrapped her arm around Henry, pulling the frightened boy securely against her black maid dress, shielding him from the socialite's venomous panic.
"Do you believe the value of a life is determined by the uniform they wear?" Warren asked, his voice echoing coldly off the carved marble walls.
"Yes!" Simone shrieked, looking 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.
Warren slowly swept his gaze across the room, taking in the numerous guests sitting frozen at their polished walnut tables.
"Have you all finished your meals?" Warren asked the room at large.
It was phrased as a question, but the command hidden within it was unmistakable and absolute. Chairs scraped violently against the polished 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 ballroom with frantic urgency, eager to escape the blast radius of Warren Blackthorne’s wrath.
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Within ninety seconds, the expansive dining hall was completely empty, save for Warren, Simone, Daphne, and Henry. The heavy mahogany doors slammed shut, sealing the room and locking Simone inside with her greatest nightmare.
"Did you think I would tolerate a coward at my table?" Warren asked, turning his terrifying focus entirely back to the woman in the satin gown.
