Chapter 3
The silence in the grand dining room was a physical, suffocating pressure. The tall candles flickering inside their silver candelabras seemed to be the only things moving. The bright, luminous colors of the room felt painfully sharp, illuminating the exact moment the polished illusion of the Kincaid empire began to violently fracture.
Dominic froze. His entire body went rigid, the breath catching in his broad chest. His cold eyes looked briefly toward the small, unmarked bottle resting beside Bridget's saucer. The reality of the assassination attempt—and the murder of his father—cemented itself in his mind.
Slowly, terrifyingly, Dominic’s eyes shifted. The movement was predatory, his gaze moving first toward Bridget, followed by a slight, deliberate turn of his head. His sharply defined jaw tightened almost imperceptibly, the extremely short stubble on his face bristling with suppressed, explosive violence.
He held Bridget’s eyes in a cold, furious stare that promised absolute destruction. The mafia boss said nothing. His silence was infinitely more dangerous than a scream, stripping away her diamonds, her satin gown, and her lies, exposing the cruel, power-hungry monster trembling beneath.
Bridget stared up at Dominic, her fair, rosy skin drained of all color, leaving her looking sickly and translucent. She gripped the fabric of her sculpted satin evening gown, her hands shaking violently.
"Are you struggling to find a suitable explanation, Bridget?" Dominic finally asked.
His deep, low voice remained completely level. The measured pause between his words was a calculated instrument of psychological torture. He did not step toward her, but the sheer gravity of his presence pressed her against the table.
"Dominic, darling, please," Bridget gasped, her American accent pitching high and breathless with panic. "The boy is confused! The maid is lying! She has been trying to poison you against me since the day I moved in! She wants to ruin this memorial! You cannot believe a servant over your future wife!"
"Does a confused child invent the specific terminology of a quiet assassination?" Dominic inquired, his perceptive eyes narrowing into cold slits.
"She put him up to it!" Bridget cried, tears of sheer desperation welling in her eyes. She pointed a shaking, diamond-adorned finger at the housemaid. "She wants to take my place! She wants the power!"
Etta held her ground, her elegant posture unwavering despite the terror hammering in her chest. She instinctively wrapped her arm around Lewis, pulling the frightened boy securely against her black maid dress, shielding him from the socialite's venomous panic.
"Would my son fabricate a nightmare to destroy the foundation of this family?" Dominic asked, his voice echoing coldly off the ivory-paneled walls.
"Yes!" Bridget shrieked, looking frantically around the room at the seated guests, silently begging someone—anyone—to intervene. But the elite crowd sat immobilized, their fair faces pale with shock, utterly unwilling to cross the mafia boss.
Dominic slowly swept his gaze across the room, taking in the numerous guests sitting frozen at their polished walnut tables.
"Have you all finished your meals?" Dominic asked the room at large.
It was phrased as a question, but the command hidden within it was unmistakable and absolute. Chairs scraped violently against the polished hardwood and marble floors as the guests practically scrambled to their feet. There were no polite farewells, no lingering handshakes. Men in tailored suits and women in evening gowns fled the bright, elegant room with frantic urgency, eager to escape the blast radius of Dominic Kincaid’s wrath.
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Within ninety seconds, the expansive dining hall was completely empty, save for Dominic, Bridget, Etta, and Lewis. The heavy mahogany doors slammed shut, sealing the room and locking Bridget inside with her greatest nightmare.
"Did you truly believe you could murder my father and remain seated at my table?" Dominic asked, turning his terrifying focus entirely back to the woman in the satin gown.
