Chapter 6
Eamon stood behind the head table, a towering figure of masculine fury. The garbage staining his tailored suit did nothing to diminish the terrifying, cinematic aura of power that radiated from him. The natural lighting of the room caught the sharp angles of his face and the lethal coldness in his eyes.
The two bodyguards who had held him instantly took a massive step backward. Their hands hovered nervously near their holstered weapons, but neither man dared to draw. They had backed a usurper whose plot had just spectacularly imploded, and they were now standing mere feet from the rightful, unrestrained boss of the syndicate.
Winona continued to whimper, leaning heavily against the velvet chair, cradling her rapidly swelling wrist. The sixty guests surrounding the tables remained absolutely petrified, their eyes darting between the furious Mafia boss and the housemaid who had just assaulted the former matriarch.
Oriana stood frozen, her chest heaving. The heavy family album slipped from her trembling fingers, landing on the floor with a dull thud. The reality of what she had just done—striking a member of the Rothwell family in front of the entire syndicate—crashed over her like a tidal wave.
She immediately stepped back, her flat shoes sliding on the marble. She moved to return beside Eamon, her natural instinct driving her to seek the safety of his presence.
Her fingers shook violently as she reached out, grabbing a fresh, clean linen napkin from the table. Without speaking, she lifted her trembling hand toward his face, intending to gently clean a streak of garbage that Winona had smeared across his cheek during the struggle.
Eamon looked down at her. He saw the sheer terror in her expressive eyes, the rapid pulse beating at the base of her throat. He didn't care about the stain on his face. He only cared about the woman who had just risked her life to protect him.
Before the napkin could touch his skin, Eamon raised his left hand. He gently caught her wrist, his fingers wrapping securely around her trembling arm. He didn't push her away; instead, he squeezed softly, a grounding, physical reassurance that stopped her shaking. He steadied her hand, keeping it suspended in the air between them.
Around them, the tension in the room began to shift. The guests, initially paralyzed by the violence, began to lower their champagne glasses. Their eyes moved from Eamon to the forged DNA report lying discarded on the marble floor.
Whispers broke out, low and urgent.
"It's a fake," a cousin muttered.
"She tried to set him up," another relative whispered, looking at Winona with disgust.
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Eamon did not acknowledge the whispering crowd. He kept his eyes locked on Oriana for a long moment, ensuring she understood she was safe under his protection. Then, slowly, he turned his sharp, predatory gaze toward his aunt.
The silence in the room deepened, the guests holding their breath, waiting for the executioner's blow.
