Chapter 2
Celandine rose slowly from her knees, her flat shoes shifting on the smooth marble. She gathered the heavy folds of the ivory gown against the bib of her white apron, clutching the antique silk to her chest as if shielding a newborn child. Her breathing was shallow, her fair, rosy cheeks flushed with a mixture of terror and unyielding resolve.
She looked directly into Percival’s slate-gray eyes, refusing to flinch from the lethal authority radiating from his imposing frame.
"The locked bedroom, Don Percival," Celandine answered, her voice quiet, uneasy, yet ringing through the dead silence of the ballroom. "The master suite on the east gallery. Isabetta gave me the brass key twenty minutes ago."
Percival’s tattooed fingers tightened around the silk train he still held. The fine satin creased under the pressure of his grip, the gold family signet ring on his pinky catching the luminous ballroom chandeliers with blinding clarity.
Beside them, Isabetta let out a sharp, nervous laugh that scraped against the quiet like a rusty nail. She reached out with her manicured hand, her heavy diamond engagement ring flashing as her fingers hovered inches from the lace collar.
"She’s making a scene out of domestic chores, Percival," Isabetta said, her tone brittle, breathless, and impatient. "I told her to clear out the old cedar wardrobes to make room for my winter furs. Your wife has been dead for three years. Stop keeping everything like a shrine to a ghost."
Percival did not release the fabric. He did not pull it away with violence, either. With an effortless, fluid motion, he simply stepped back half an inch, drawing the gown closer to his chest without allowing Isabetta’s fingers to make contact with the silk.
His eyes shifted from Celandine to Isabetta. He did not blink. The short stubble along his jawline bristled as his teeth clenched beneath his lips, but his volume remained terrifyingly low when he spoke.
"My wife's rooms," Percival whispered, every syllable calculated and dangerous, "were sealed under my own hand. No one enters that gallery. Not my capos. Not my staff. And certainly not you."
"We are getting married on Saturday!" Isabetta protested, her voice rising in defensive indignance as she noticed several high-ranking syndicate lieutenants watching from the archway. "I have the right to redecorate the mistress's quarters! You cannot expect me to sleep under the shadow of a woman whose ashes are already cold in the family vault!"
"The key was locked inside the safe behind my desk," Percival murmured, his voice dropping into a register so chilling that the nearest guests took a synchronized step backward. "How did it reach your hand, Isabetta?"
Isabetta’s throat bobbed. "You left your desk unlocked after the council meeting this morning. I merely—"
"No, Don Percival," Celandine interrupted.
The young maid stepped forward, her hands moving with sudden, frantic precision. She turned the gown’s high neckline outward, exposing the clean white silk of the inner collar to the radiant light.
There, stamped vividly against the interior lining beside the hand-sewn pearl flowers, were two distinct, fresh crimson marks.
Lipstick. Moist, warm, and freshly applied.
Celandine looked from the bright red pigment directly into Percival’s eyes, before her gaze darted upward toward the shadowed balustrade of the second-floor gallery.
Around the low bench, fifty wealthy guests fell into an absolute, breathless hush.
Celandine clutched the gown with shaking hands, her voice barely rising above a whisper, yet carrying the force of a detonating bomb.
"Then who was the person," Celandine asked, "I just helped put on this dress in that room?"
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Isabetta’s hand froze mid-air. Her face drained of all color, turning the shade of spoiled milk.
Percival’s head turned slowly, his cold, terrifying gaze lifting toward the empty darkness of the upstairs gallery.
