Chapter 4
The medium wide shot recaptured the immediate, terrifying fallout of Antonia’s accusation. The bright, airy colors of the dining hall felt suddenly charged with an explosive, high-voltage tension. The clean whites of the table linens and the polished highlights of the silver cutlery shimmered beneath the warm golden light, a stark contrast to the dark reality of the confrontation.
Edith did not let go of the wheelchair handles. She kept a firm, white-knuckled grip on the heavy steel, acting as the only physical anchor keeping the Mafia boss from rolling backward into the serving cart. Her heart hammered a frantic rhythm against her ribs.
She looked directly at Marcus, holding his cold, perceptive gaze. The sheer, deeply masculine power he projected was overwhelming, but beneath the cold exterior, she recognized a fierce, unyielding demand for the truth.
Antonia, realizing that her casual dismissal was failing to command the room, decided to force the issue. She leaned sharply across the polished walnut table, her satin gown rustling loudly.
"Let go of the chair, Edith," Antonia ordered, her voice losing its reassuring tone, replaced by a sharp, authoritative frequency. "You are making a scene. Let go."
Antonia reached her arm across the table, her manicured fingers stretching toward Edith’s wrist, intending to physically pry the maid's hand off the wheelchair handle.
Before Antonia's fingers could even brush the black fabric of the maid's sleeve, Marcus moved.
With a fluid, terrifying masculine grace that belied his injury, Marcus raised his right arm. He placed a steady, heavily tattooed hand directly across Antonia’s approaching forearm. The physical intervention was absolute. The warm, golden light caught the artistic ink on his knuckles as he effectively pinned her arm to the table, stopping her movement instantly.
Antonia gasped, her eyes widening in shock as his grip tightened just enough to convey an unspoken, lethal warning. She froze, unable to pull back.
Marcus did not look at his fiancée. His cold, observant eyes remained locked on the beautiful housemaid standing behind him.
"Is carelessness the cause of severed steel, Antonia?" Marcus asked, his deep voice rolling through the quiet room, the measured pauses striking like a physical blow.
He waited for Edith. He was offering her the floor, shielding her with his immense presence, and demanding the absolute truth in front of the fifty most powerful families in the state.
Edith took a shallow, shaky breath. Her slender figure straightened slightly beneath the sophisticated black maid dress. She looked into Marcus's eyes and answered in a firm, undeniably clear voice that shattered the elegant illusion of the evening.
“The brake is broken.”
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The absolute, terrifying implication of the housemaid's words crashed over the dining hall. The wheelchair of the syndicate boss had not slipped due to a clumsy servant. The heavy steel mechanism had been deliberately broken, sabotaged in a way that could have caused him a catastrophic injury if it had failed near a staircase instead of a dining table.
A collective, stifled gasp rippled through the gathered relatives and associates. To state that an assassination attempt, however passive, had occurred within the walls of the mansion was a horrifying revelation.
