Chapter 3
A collective, silent gasp seemed to ripple through the velvet dining chairs. The guests stared in unadulterated shock. The implication hung in the air like a guillotine blade—the future bride of the mafia boss, who had claimed a pristine past, was suddenly confronted by a husband she had completely erased.
Everett’s cold eyes remained locked on Josie for a fraction of a second before he processed the sheer magnitude of her words. With a terrifying, predatory calm, Everett rose from his chair. The movement was fluid and absolute. His powerful shoulders dominated the space as he stood up, his tailored dark suit acting as a physical barrier. He placed himself deliberately between Odilia and both Josie and the elderly man, shielding them from the woman in satin.
"Are you truly expecting me to believe he is your uncle, Odilia?" Everett asked, his voice dropping to a terrifying, deadly whisper that vibrated through the fine porcelain on the table.
"Everett, darling, please," Odilia stammered, the faint, reassuring smile completely evaporating from her face. "The maid is lying! He is a distant relative! His mind is completely gone from dementia! He doesn't know what he's saying!"
"Why would my housemaid risk her life to bring a senile relative to my engagement dinner?" Everett inquired, his gaze remaining fixed on his fiancée, his jaw muscles ticking beneath his stubble.
"She hates me!" Odilia cried, her voice pitching an octave higher as her panic set in. "She’s been trying to ruin this engagement since the day I moved in! She wants your money, Everett! She paid this old man to come here and cause a scene!"
The silence stretched, thick and suffocating, until it was broken by a frail, raspy voice.
Arthur, sitting quietly in his worn formal suit, looked directly across the table at Odilia. The seventy-four-year-old man’s fingers became completely still around the carved wooden handle of his cane. He didn't look angry; he looked profoundly, devastatingly haunted. He stared at the woman in the satin gown who had terrorized him in secret.
"You murdered the next two," Arthur said.
His voice was incredibly quiet, yet it carried a firm, wounded certainty that shattered the remaining illusions in the room. He took a shallow, rattling breath, his pale eyes locked onto the monster he had once loved.
"Is this your next one?" Arthur asked, gesturing weakly toward Everett.
The words emerged without accusation toward the mafia boss, merely a statement of absolute, irrefutable horror from a man who had barely survived her wrath.
Everett’s eyes snapped to Arthur. He looked at the frail man for a brief, incredibly still beat. The entire room seemed to hold its breath as the horrifying reality of Arthur's statement sank into the mafia boss's consciousness. His beautiful bride was a black widow.
Then, Everett slowly shifted his eyes toward Odilia.
His head followed his gaze in a slight, deliberate turn. The small artistic tattoo on his neck shifted above his collar. The muscles in his sharply defined jaw firmed almost imperceptibly, setting into unyielding granite. His mouth became completely still, a terrifying void that swallowed all the warmth in the room.
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He held Odilia’s eyes with a cold, furious, unwavering stare. He did not yell. He did not ask a question immediately. He simply stared at her, stripping away every layer of her satin and diamonds, exposing the rot underneath.
Every guest remained perfectly attentive and utterly motionless, terrified to even draw a breath, waiting for the execution to begin.
