Chapter 4
The cascading crystal chandeliers continued to bathe the room in their bright, airy light, but the engagement dinner had fundamentally shattered. The thirty elite guests remained paralyzed in their champagne velvet chairs, watching the confrontation unfold with breathless terror. They were seasoned politicians and syndicate lieutenants, but none of them dared to intervene in a dispute of this magnitude.
Daphne’s fair, rosy skin had turned entirely translucent. She swallowed hard, her chest heaving beneath her sculpted satin gown.
"Vincent... you are misunderstanding me," Daphne finally gasped, her American accent pitching high and breathless with panic. "His dosage is too high! The doctor said it was making him dizzy! I was only trying to protect him from a fall!"
"Are you claiming medical expertise that supersedes his physician?" Vincent 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 wall.
"He was being stubborn!" Daphne cried, pointing a shaking, diamond-adorned finger at Howard. "He refuses to listen! He wanders the house at night! I told him if he couldn't follow my rules for his safety, he wouldn't get his pills! It was tough love, Vincent!"
"Does love require the humiliation of an elder?" Vincent inquired, his perceptive eyes narrowing into cold slits.
"She is turning him against me!" Daphne shrieked, suddenly pivoting her vicious glare toward Bea. "That little rat of a maid has been coddling him, undermining my authority since the day I moved in! She wants to ruin our evening!"
Bea’s hand instinctively reached out, her fingers resting lightly on the back of Howard’s chair in a fierce, protective gesture. She glared at the socialite, her soft features hardening with quiet outrage. Howard shrank back slightly, overwhelmed by the shouting, but Vincent’s solid, unmoving presence kept him anchored.
"Would my father fabricate a lie to destroy the foundation of this family?" Vincent asked, his voice echoing off the carved walnut paneling.
"Yes!" Daphne shrieked, tears of sheer desperation welling in her eyes. She looked 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.
Vincent slowly swept his gaze across the room, taking in the thirty guests sitting frozen at their white damask tables.
"Should our guests be subjected to the resolution of a private family dispute?" Vincent asked the room at large.
May you like
It was phrased as a question, but the command hidden within it was unmistakable. Chairs scraped violently against the polished 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 Vincent Caldwell’s wrath.
Within moments, the grand dining hall was entirely empty, save for the four figures standing near the head table. The heavy mahogany doors slammed shut, sealing the room and locking Daphne inside with her greatest nightmare.
