Chapter 3
A collective, silent gasp seemed to ripple through the velvet dining chairs. The guests stared in unadulterated shock. The late wife of the mafia boss had died in childbirth six years ago, a tragedy that had hardened Tristan Kincaid into the ruthless, untouchable king he was today. To bring the midwife who had attended that bloody, tragic night into the middle of his engagement dinner was an act of either supreme bravery or sheer madness.
Before Tristan could process the magnitude of the maid's revelation, Felicity intervened.
Felicity smoothly adjusted her posture, the sculpted emerald silk of her gown pooling elegantly around her. She met Tristan’s stunned, intense gaze with a faint, indulgent smile, projecting the image of a devoted, fiercely protective fiancée attempting to shield him from a cruel, unfortunate disruption.
"Ruth gets confused, darling," Felicity said, her voice remaining softly reassuring, dripping with manufactured pity. "Her mind has been failing her for years. I asked the staff not to let her wander."
She offered the lie with effortless, chilling perfection. But her eyes betrayed her. They frantically searched Tristan’s angular face for any sign of agreement, any indication that he would accept her version of reality and dismiss the frail elderly woman and the beautiful housemaid.
Tristan did not nod. He did not agree. He moved with the predatory, liquid grace of a man who commanded an empire of violence. Pushing his chair back, he rose slowly to his full, imposing height. The tailored dark fabric of his three-piece suit shifted perfectly over his powerful shoulders.
He stepped smoothly around the table, drawing out the heavy champagne velvet chair beside him for Ruth. In doing so, he positioned his massive frame directly between Felicity and both Ruth and Elsa, building an impenetrable wall of dark wool and muscle. The refined artistic tattoos across his hands flexed as he gently guided the trembling midwife into the seat.
"Do you expect me to dismiss a guest in my own home without hearing her speak?" Tristan asked, his voice remaining quiet, yet vibrating with a lethal, suppressed fury directed entirely at Felicity.
Felicity’s indulgent smile began to tighten at the corners, hardening into a rigid, brittle line of panic as she realized he was not dismissing the intrusion. "Tristan, please, she doesn't know what she's saying. It's the dementia."
The tension in the room snapped, not with a roar, but with a frail, trembling whisper.
Ruth, clutching the water glass with both hands, slowly turned her head. Emboldened by the solid, imposing presence of the mafia boss standing like a fortress beside her, the seventy-four-year-old woman looked directly at Felicity.
Ruth’s tired eyes glistened with old, deep-seated fear. Her pale lips trembled slightly, but she found a reserve of strength she hadn't known in six years. She spoke quietly, allowing a small, agonizing pause after her first word.
"Twins," Ruth said, her voice echoing in the dead silent room. "You took the girl."
The words emerged without accusation or anger, merely a statement of absolute, irrefutable fact from a woman who had carried a monstrous burden for far too long.
Tristan’s cold eyes snapped down to Ruth. He held the midwife's gaze for a brief, incredibly motionless beat. He absorbed the sheer vulnerability in her posture, the undeniable truth written across her tear-streaked, wrinkled face.
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Then, Tristan slowly shifted his eyes toward Felicity.
His head followed his gaze in a slight, deliberate turn. The muscles in his sharply defined jaw firmed almost imperceptibly, setting into unyielding granite. He held Felicity’s eyes with a cold, knowing stare. Complete, absolute silence reigned. He did not yell. He simply stared at her, stripping away every layer of her emerald silk and diamonds, exposing the rot underneath.
