Chapter 5
The silence on the terrace was heavy, suffocating under the bright, clear sky. The guests held their breath, their fair skin paling as they watched the head of the family kneeling in the spilled dessert.
Celina, sitting beside the matriarch, felt a brief flicker of unease, but her inherent arrogance quickly smothered it. She had grown up in this violent, patriarchal world, and she fundamentally believed that showing any form of softness, especially to a crying child, was a display of weakness. She adjusted her expensive jewelry, her rosy cheeks flushing as she decided to double down on the cruelty to impress Lucille.
"Oh, for heaven's sake, Rafael, get up," Celina sighed loudly, her crisp American accent ringing out over the quiet terrace. "You're ruining a five-thousand-dollar suit over a plate of burnt fruit."
Rafael did not move. He kept Emmett pressed securely against his chest, his sharp jawline locked in a rigid, terrifying line.
Celina let out a mocking, theatrical laugh. She reached out with her manicured hands and grabbed the edge of a massive, tiered silver tray resting on the table in front of them. It was loaded with untouched, exquisite banquet desserts—flawless macarons, spun-sugar tarts, and gold-leafed pastries.
She pushed the heavy tray firmly toward Lucille.
"Look at this spread, Rafael," Celina called out, her tone dripping with venomous mockery. "We have the finest pastry chefs in the city catering this event. Why on earth would Aunt Lucille want to eat that sloppy mess?"
Celina looked down at the shattered plate and the purple stains on the stone floor, her lip curling in absolute disgust.
"Even a dog wouldn’t eat that," Celina sneered, entirely blind to the fact that she had just signed her own death warrant.
Rafael did not react immediately. He slowly, deliberately turned his head. His cold, intimidating eyes swept across the enormous, twenty-foot-long dessert table that dominated the terrace. It was a masterpiece of culinary art, draped in white silk, holding thousands of dollars worth of exquisite cakes, crystal champagne towers, and delicate porcelain plates. It was the physical manifestation of the family's wealth and status.
"Is that so," Rafael whispered softly.
He gently set Emmett down on his feet, keeping the boy safely positioned behind his own body. He stood up slowly, reaching his full, imposing height. He smoothed the front of his tailored suit, his artistic neck and hand tattoos standing out starkly in the bright light.
"Take the boy to the car," Rafael commanded, his voice barely above a breath.
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Two of his personal bodyguards immediately stepped forward. One of them gently scooped up the crying three-year-old, shielding his face, and walked swiftly toward the estate's private driveway, putting the child completely out of sight.
Rafael turned back to face the long dessert table. The measured, cold calculation in his eyes was terrifying to behold.
