Chapter 4
The heavy doors clicked shut, plunging the vast, luminous dining hall into a profound, ringing silence. The cascading crystal chandeliers continued to cast their warm golden light over the abandoned gold-rimmed porcelain and half-empty wine glasses. The opulent space, designed for celebration, now felt like a gilded cage.
Clarissa backed away from the head table, her heels clicking unsteadily against the polished floor. She wrapped her arms around her waist, a defensive posture that crushed the sculpted satin of her expensive gown. Her diamond earrings shook as she wept, her carefully constructed facade entirely destroyed.
"Sterling, you cannot believe this is worth destroying us over," Clarissa sobbed, her chest heaving. "My family arranged this marriage! We are supposed to unite our syndicates! Are you going to throw all of that away because of a broken glass and a maid?"
Sterling stood immovably in his suit. He slowly crouched down, bringing his handsome, angular face level with his son’s.
"Can you tell me exactly what you heard today, Peter?" Sterling asked gently, his deep voice softening significantly to comfort the boy.
Peter sniffled, rubbing his nose with the back of his small hand. He looked at Delia, who gave him an encouraging, tearful nod, before looking back into his father's cold, but loving, eyes.
"I was in the hallway," Peter explained, his voice trembling but remarkably clear. "Delia dropped a glass in the parlor. Clarissa got really mad. She took Delia's medicine away and put it in her purse. Delia asked for it back because her chest hurt. Clarissa laughed and said breathing costs extra in this house."
Clarissa let out a blood-curdling scream of denial. "He is lying! The maid told him to say that! She has been trying to turn him against me!"
Sterling rose slowly to his full height. He turned his broad, powerful shoulders toward his fiancée. The extremely short stubble on his jawline seemed to bristle with barely contained violence.
"Would Delia risk her life in this house to manufacture such a claim?" Sterling asked.
"Yes!" Clarissa shrieked, pointing viciously at the housemaid. "Look at her! She thinks she's better than me just because she plays mommy to your little brat!"
Sterling didn't look at Delia. He kept his perceptive eyes locked entirely on Clarissa, dissecting her panic, reading the absolute guilt written plainly across her flushed, rosy skin. He had survived in the criminal underworld by being an unparalleled judge of human character. He knew when someone was lying to him, and he knew the awful, crushing weight of the truth.
"Are you capable of telling the truth, Clarissa, or must I extract it from you?" Sterling asked, taking a slow, deliberate step toward her.
"I love you, Sterling!" she wept, falling to her knees on the luxurious rug, the sculpted satin of her gown pooling around her. She clasped her hands together in a begging gesture. "Please, darling! My father put me up to it! He told me I needed to establish dominance over the staff and the boy! I didn't want to hurt her!"
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"Did you believe that torturing a woman would secure your place at the head of this empire?" Sterling asked.
His voice dropped to a terrifying, gravelly whisper. It was a sound that had preceded the end of many men's lives. Clarissa stared up at his movie-star handsome face, realizing with absolute, horrifying clarity that there was no escape. The mafia boss had heard enough, and the consequences would be severe.
