Chapter 3
The journey to the head table felt as though it stretched across miles rather than a few dozen feet. The clear lighting of the room seemed to spotlight Elora as she approached, revealing every detail of her sophisticated black maid dress and the small, well-dressed child clinging to her side. The warm golden highlights from the silver candelabras flickered across their fair, rosy skin as they finally stopped beside Declan’s right shoulder.
Vivian was currently leaning across the polished walnut table, her diamond earrings sparkling as she engaged the mayor in conversation.
"It is all about maintaining the integrity of the neighborhood," Vivian said, her smile wide and practiced. "We simply cannot allow the new zoning laws to disrupt the peace we have built here. Don't you agree, Mr. Mayor?"
"Absolutely, Miss Rowe," the mayor nodded enthusiastically, eager to please the fiancée of the city's most dangerous man. "Your concerns are completely valid."
Declan, completely disinterested in the political posturing, was speaking quietly to his underboss, who was standing behind his chair.
"Have the western port managers submitted their final ledgers for the month?" Declan asked, his deep voice carrying a terrifying, controlled calmness.
"They were delivered this morning, boss," the underboss replied in a hushed tone.
"Are there any discrepancies that require my personal attention?" Declan inquired, his sharp, intimidating eyes narrowing slightly as he picked up his crystal stemware.
"Nothing we cannot handle internally," the underboss assured him.
Elora took a small, stabilizing breath. Moving with polished, elegant grace, she reached out and gently placed the small porcelain saucer containing the homemade cupcake directly onto the table, right beside Declan’s pristine dinner plate. The simple, humble pastry looked drastically out of place amidst the lavish spread of white roses and fine porcelain.
Declan’s cold, observant eyes immediately caught the movement. He lowered his crystal glass, his thick, dark eyebrows drawing together in mild confusion as he looked at the small cake.
Before he could ask a question, a small, tentative movement broke his concentration.
Asher, standing barely as tall as the armrest of the velvet chair, reached out his tiny hand. His small fingers, pale and trembling slightly in the luminous light, gently touched the tailored dark wool of Declan’s sleeve.
Declan froze. The artistic, refined tattoos on his hands became perfectly still. He turned his head slowly, the loose strands of hair falling over his forehead, and looked down.
Asher looked directly into Declan’s cold, intimidating eyes. The three-year-old boy possessed the exact same high-bridged nose, the same fair, rosy skin, and the same distinct, wavy dark hair. He recognized the man instantly from the worn photograph his mother kept hidden in her room.
"Daddy?" Asher asked, his high, sweet voice ringing out with absolute clarity.
The single word cut through the ambient noise of the banquet like a gunshot. The clinking of crystal stemware stopped. The low murmur of political gossip evaporated. The entire dining room went utterly, breathlessly silent.
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"Did that child just call him father?" a capo’s wife whispered in horror from the next table over.
"Is this some kind of sick joke?" another guest muttered, staring wide-eyed at the head table.
