Chapter 4
The medium wide shot held the escalating tension perfectly. The bright, airy colors of the dining hall felt almost surreal against the dark, psychological warfare occurring at the head of the table. The clean whites of the table linens and the polished highlights of the silver cutlery shimmered beneath the warm golden light.
Daphne met Soren’s eyes with practiced ease. Her fair, rosy complexion was flawless, projecting an aura of complete, unbothered calm.
“She can’t hear a thing,” Daphne announced.
Her voice was light, carrying a tone of amused, dismissive pity that echoed clearly across the carved walnut walls. She gave a small, indulgent laugh, a sound designed to sound affectionate but which dripped with absolute, poisonous contempt.
Her lips held a sympathetic, reassuring smile, aimed to put the rest of the dinner guests at ease regarding the matriarch's declining health. Yet, above the curve of her smile, her eyes remained intensely watchful. She briefly flicked her gaze toward Eleanor, a sharp, cold look checking to see whether the elderly woman would attempt to speak again or if the public dismissal had successfully shamed her back into silence.
Soren did not smile back. He did not nod in agreement.
The Mafia boss possessed a preternatural ability to read the micro-expressions of the people around him. The extremely short stubble on his sharply defined jawline seemed to harden into granite. He slowly turned his heavy family signet ring, the artistic tattoos on his hands flexing under the luminous chandeliers.
"Does a lack of hearing equate to a lack of understanding?" Soren inquired. His deep, low voice rolled through the immediate space, the measured pause striking like the heavy toll of a bell.
Daphne’s sympathetic smile tightened significantly at the corners. The casual dismissal she had attempted had failed to penetrate his formidable intellect.
"Of course not, darling," Daphne replied, her voice lowering slightly, attempting to manage the situation before it drew the attention of the entire room. "But her mind wanders. You know how difficult this week has been for her. She simply doesn't know where she is half the time. It is kinder to just let her rest in her own world."
"Is it kindness to speak for a woman who still possesses her own tongue?" Soren asked, his cold, perceptive eyes dissecting her false empathy with surgical precision.
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Daphne’s chest heaved slightly beneath the sculpted satin of her evening gown. She realized the danger she was in. Soren was not letting the moment pass.
Eleanor remained perfectly still in her ivory upholstered chair. Her frail hands kept their vice-like grip on her white napkin. Her eyes, faded but fiercely intelligent, darted from the woman who had tormented her to the son who held the power of life and death in the city. The older woman was listening to every single word, absorbing the lies, and preparing to shatter them entirely.
