Chapter 3
Holly gently, but firmly, caught Finn’s trembling hands. Moving with a fluid grace that defied the absolute terror gripping her chest, she lifted Finn’s bound wrists into view above the edge of the polished walnut table.
The harsh satin ribbon, pulled so tight it had left angry red marks on the child's fair, rosy skin, was now visible to every guest in the room. Without breaking eye contact with the towering mafia boss, Holly snipped the ribbon. The sharp sound of the metal cutting fabric echoed loudly. The severed ends of the garnet ribbon fell uselessly into Finn’s lap.
Quentin rose instantly. The movement was predatory and fluid. His powerful shoulders dominated the space as he stood beside Finn’s chair, his tailored dark suit acting as a physical barrier.
Holly met Quentin’s cold, perceptive eyes. Her inner brows lifted helplessly, an expression of profound, restrained sorrow. Tears gathered rapidly beneath her lower eyelids, catching the warm light of the chandeliers.
"I’m cutting Finn free," Holly answered, her voice thin, wounded, but carrying a shattering clarity across the silent room.
A collective, silent breath seemed to leave the room. The guests remained frozen in their champagne velvet chairs.
Finn, his wrists finally free, brought his hands up to his chest. He looked directly at his father. The boy’s inner brows lifted helplessly; his newly freed hands remained pressed together in a gesture of pure, instinctual fear. He had been told his father was the architect of his suffering.
"Bianca said you ordered it," Finn said.
The seven-year-old spoke softly, his voice wavering, terrified of another punishment. The words emerged without accusation or anger, merely a statement of absolute, irrefutable fact from a child who had been manipulated by a monster.
Quentin’s accusing expression softened into a brief, painful recognition. He looked at Finn for one silent, motionless beat. The horrific realization of what had been done to his son under his own roof, in his own name, washed over his angular face.
Then, Quentin slowly shifted his eyes toward Bianca.
His head followed his gaze in a slight, deliberate turn. The muscles in his sharply defined jaw firmed into unyielding granite. His mouth became completely still, a terrifying void that swallowed all the warmth in the room. He held Bianca’s eyes in a cold, unwavering stare.
"Do you take me for a fool, Bianca?" Quentin asked, his deep voice barely rising above a whisper, yet resonating with absolute, lethal intent.
"Quentin, darling, please," Bianca stammered, the faint, concerned smile completely evaporating from her face. Her fair skin turned the color of ash. "The boy is lying! He is misbehaving! He spilled wine on the Persian rug!"
"Is tying a child like an animal your definition of discipline?" Quentin inquired, taking a slow, deliberate step toward her side of the table.
"I was doing it for you!" Bianca cried, her voice pitching an octave higher as her panic set in. "You demand perfection in this house! I was ensuring he didn't embarrass you in front of the capos!"
"Do you believe my reputation requires the torture of my own blood?" Quentin asked.
He did not raise his hand. He simply stared at her, stripping away every layer of her garnet satin and diamonds, exposing the rot underneath.
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"Will all of you leave my home immediately?" Quentin asked, turning his head slightly to address the crowded room without breaking his cold stare on his fiancée.
The question was a direct command. Instantly, the scraping of velvet dining chairs against the hardwood floor sounded like thunder as the elite of the underworld scrambled to escape his wrath.
