Chapter 6
The medium wide shot of the family table captured a scene of absolute, suffocating tension. The bright video colors of the cream roses and the gold-rimmed porcelain felt like a grotesque mockery of the dark, violent reality that had just been unearthed. Gideon sat immovably at the head of the table, his powerful hand cradling his mother's bruised wrist, his cold eyes pinned to his fiancée.
Juliette Vance was backed into a corner, completely exposed beneath the luminous, warm golden light of the chandeliers. The eyes of dozens of powerful, dangerous White American men and women were fixed upon her, waiting to see how she would survive the absolute ruin of her reputation.
Desperation fueled a final, frantic attempt at self-preservation.
Juliette held Gideon’s lethal gaze, forcing her posture to remain upright. She let out a brief, airy laugh that sounded completely hollow and manic against the carved walnut paneling.
“She bruises so easily,” Juliette announced.
Her American accent was pitched slightly higher than usual, dripping with a false, saccharine sympathy. She looked around the table, desperately trying to recruit the guests to her fabricated narrative.
"You all know how fragile she has become in her old age," Juliette continued, waving her manicured hand dismissively. "I was simply helping her out of the carriage yesterday afternoon, and I suppose my grip was just a fraction too firm. It was a complete accident, darling. I felt terrible about it, which is exactly why I gifted her the bracelet—to cover the unsightly mark for your special dinner."
Her smile lingered, wide and desperate, as she looked back down at Gideon. She waited in agonizing suspense for him to accept the explanation, for the terrifying Mafia boss to wave away the incident and restore the elegant harmony of their engagement dinner.
Gideon did not wave it away.
He studied her. The extremely short stubble on his angular face caught the candlelight as he tilted his head a fraction of an inch. His slow, knowing look completely dismantled her pathetic, transparent lie. The refined artistic tattoos on his hand flexed slightly as he gently stroked his mother's frail fingers.
"Does a simple, helpful hand leave the distinct impression of four punishing fingers and a thumb?" Gideon asked.
His deep, low voice rolled through the quiet room, the measured pauses striking like the toll of a funeral bell.
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"Are we to believe that assistance requires the force to rupture blood vessels?" Gideon inquired, his questions slicing through her defense with surgical, ruthless precision.
Juliette’s forced, reassuring smile began to tighten. The corners of her lips trembled. Her fair, rosy skin flushed a deep, angry crimson as the realization set in that her manipulation had utterly failed. She was staring into the eyes of a man who missed absolutely nothing, and her excuses were turning to ash in her mouth. The bright, airy room suddenly felt like a locked execution chamber.
