Chapter 8
The camera shifted back to a tight close-up of Eleanor. The cinematic, slightly warm white balance of the lighting caught the fierce, unyielding resolve that had finally replaced the terror in the elderly woman's eyes. She had endured the darkness of a silent world, trapped inside her own mind while the woman across the table plotted the destruction of her family. But now, with her son standing like a fortress beside her, Eleanor was ready to strike the final, fatal blow.
Eleanor lifted her chin. She did not look at Daphne. She looked directly into Soren’s cold, perceptive eyes.
“She said you’d never wake up.”
Her voice was thin and frightened, breaking the ringing silence of the room like a shattering crystal glass. The words caught slightly on the word "wake," a fragile, heartbreaking sound of profound trauma.
The absolute, terrifying implication of the sentence crashed over the dining hall.
Eleanor kept searching his face, her faded eyes wide and desperate, waiting to be believed. She was not talking about a casual insult. She was repeating a conversation she had overheard while sitting in forced silence—a conversation Daphne had recklessly held in her presence, believing the matriarch was completely deaf.
"She was on the telephone in the drawing room," Eleanor continued, her voice gaining a fraction of strength as the truth finally spilled out. "She told a man that the dosage was perfect. She said you would go to sleep just like your brother did, and the syndicate would be hers by morning."
A collective, horrified gasp erupted from the wealthy guests. The memorial dinner honoring Soren’s late brother—who had reportedly died in his sleep just months prior—suddenly took on a dark, sinister reality. The brother had not died of a sudden, tragic medical failure. He had been murdered. And the architect of his assassination was standing directly across the table, wearing a sculpted satin gown and a diamond engagement ring.
Soren’s expression did not harden into explosive rage. The deeply masculine, terrifying Mafia boss became preternaturally still.
He reached out. His large, heavily tattooed hand moved with profound, unexpected gentleness. He gently covered Eleanor’s frail, trembling hand where it rested on the white damask tablecloth. His hand became entirely still, a silent, absolute promise of unwavering belief and protection.
Every single guest at the massive, crowded table remained completely silent. The air in the room felt suddenly charged with a lethal, violent energy.
"Soren, she is lying!" Daphne shrieked, her voice pitching up into a hysterical wail. She backed away from the table, her high heels catching on the carpet. "She is insane! She is combining memories because of her grief! I would never hurt you! I love you!"
Soren did not look at Daphne. He kept his eyes locked on his mother, his thumb gently stroking her knuckles.
"Would a grieving mother invent the specific details of an assassination plot to slander the woman her son loves?" Soren asked softly.
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He slowly turned his head. The loose strands of wavy hair falling over his forehead contrasted violently with the absolute, apocalyptic death promised in his cold eyes.
"Or did you simply underestimate the hearing of the woman whose family you intend to slaughter?" Soren inquired, his voice a low, vibrating hum of pure executioner's wrath. End before Daphne explains.
