Elise Warren carefully set a glass of water before frail, seventy-four-year-old Agnes Bell at the head of the dining table

The final question broke whatever fragile strands of sanity Giselle still possessed. Stripped of her leverage, her lies exposed, and her death a near certainty, the cornered woman snapped. A feral, animalistic scream tore from her throat. In a blur of rustling satin and desperation, Giselle reached down to the slit in her sculpted evening gown, her hand diving toward a hidden garter belt wrapped tightly around her thigh.

Elise saw the flash of silver first. “Gun!” the housemaid shouted, her composure finally breaking as she dove instinctively toward the frail midwife in the armchair, throwing her body over Agnes to shield her from the line of fire.

Giselle whipped a small, pearl-handled derringer upward, her hands shaking violently as she leveled the barrel directly at Elise’s back. “You ruined my life!” she shrieked, her finger tightening on the trigger.

Nathaniel moved with terrifying, preternatural speed. The heavy, tailored fabric of his dark suit blurred as he closed the distance before Giselle could fully extend her arm. He didn't bother reaching for a weapon. He struck with his bare hands. His heavily tattooed fingers clamped around Giselle’s wrist with bone-crushing force, violently twisting her arm upward and outward.

A sharp crack echoed through the study as Giselle’s wrist snapped. She screamed in agony, her fingers releasing the derringer. The small weapon clattered harmlessly onto the Persian rug. Nathaniel didn't stop there. He swept his polished leather shoe behind her legs, driving her brutally to the ground. His powerful shoulders braced as he pinned her down, pressing his forearm against her throat just enough to cut off her hysterical screaming, reducing her to pathetic, choking gasps.

Elise slowly pushed herself up from the armchair, checking quickly to ensure Agnes was unhurt. The elderly woman was pale and shaking, but physically unharmed, clutching her walking cane tightly.

Nathaniel stared down into his fiancée’s terrified, bloodshot eyes, his own expression entirely devoid of adrenaline or panic. He was utterly, terrifyingly calm.

“Did you truly think a toy gun would save you from my wrath?”

Giselle choked, tears and mascara streaming down her face, her broken wrist cradled against her chest as she writhed under his immense weight.

Nathaniel released the pressure on her throat just enough to allow her to breathe, but his grip on her shoulder remained absolute. The cold, observant eyes of the mafia boss burned with a dark, unholy fire.

“Are you truly this pathetic, Giselle?”

Without waiting for an answer, Nathaniel stood up, straightening his vest and brushing a microscopic speck of dust from his sleeve. He looked toward the heavy oak doors and snapped his fingers once.

The doors burst open instantly. Four armed guards poured into the study, their weapons drawn, their eyes scanning the room for threats before locking onto the weeping woman on the floor.