Chapter 3
The continuous, muted clatter of silver cutlery against porcelain plates came to a sudden, jarring halt. The bright, airy lighting of the dining hall seemed to sharpen, acting as a high-definition spotlight on the silent tension escalating at the head of the family table.
Ronan did not move his powerful shoulders. He simply stared at the space where the bruised wrist had just been concealed, his heavily tattooed hands resting completely still by his sides. The generous spacing of the ink was clearly visible under the warm, golden chandelier light.
He did not smile back at his fiancée. He did not nod in agreement. The Mafia boss possessed a preternatural ability to read the subtle indicators of deception, and the sudden, breathless terror radiating from the housemaid painted a starkly different picture than a simple accident.
He slowly turned his head. The loose strands of slightly wavy hair falling over his forehead cast no shadows in the bright, luminous room, but the sheer gravity of his presence seemed to darken the space immediately surrounding him. He shifted his cold, terrifyingly perceptive gaze away from Beatrice and looked directly at Della.
Della held his gaze, her heart plummeting into her stomach. She saw the deeply masculine, lethal power radiating from him, but beneath the cold exterior, she recognized an unyielding demand for the truth.
“Della. Did you fall?”
Ronan’s voice was deep, quiet, and impossibly deliberate. The question dropped into the silent, luminous room like a heavy stone into still water. There was a controlled, terrifying pause placed perfectly after her name.
Every single guest at the massive, crowded table stopped eating and speaking. The melodic hum of polite conversations died completely. Men in expensive formal wear and women in satin gowns turned their heads in unison, their fair, rosy faces locking onto the head of the table. The silence was absolute, heavy with the terrifying realization that the apex predator of their world had just halted his own engagement dinner to interrogate a servant.
Della froze. She swallowed hard, the muscles in her throat contracting visibly beneath her crisp white collar. She was entirely exposed beneath the bright, golden glow of the cascading chandeliers, trapped between the man who owned the city and the woman who was about to marry him.
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.
Holding Ronan’s intense, perceptive gaze, Della made her choice.
May you like
“She pushed me.”
Della answered in a fragile, breathless voice that barely disturbed the air, yet echoed like a gunshot in the silent room. She pressed her lips tightly together, frightened by what telling him might cost her, but completely unable to lie to the man standing before her.
