Chapter 8
The tension in the luminous ballroom reached an unbearable, suffocating peak. The elite white American guests remained absolutely frozen at their elegant dinner tables. No one dared to sip their wine or whisper a single word. They were witnessing the internal implosion of a Mafia empire, playing out in real-time under the bright, clean lighting of a grand opening gala.
At the periphery of the room, tall men in dark suits—Adrian’s loyal bodyguards—began to move. They stepped quietly away from the walls, their hands resting subtly near their holstered weapons. They did not interfere; they simply formed an impenetrable perimeter, sealing the ballroom. No one was leaving until the Boss had his answers.
Adrian remained perfectly still, his deeply masculine, athletic frame positioned squarely between Estelle and Agnes. His hands rested casually at his sides, the artistic tattoos on his fingers stark against his fair skin. He looked at Estelle, dissecting the trembling, sobbing woman who was supposed to be his wife.
"You wanted the land," Adrian reasoned aloud, his slow, measured voice carrying the terrifying weight of absolute authority. "You sent a contractor to buy her out. She refused. You knew I would never allow you to force her out. So, you decided to remove the obstacle permanently."
"Adrian, please, you have to believe me!" Estelle wept, her hands clutching the edge of the table behind her. "I never ordered a fire! I never wanted her dead! I just wanted the property cleared!"
"If you did not order the fire," Adrian said softly, his cold, penetrating eyes narrowing into lethal slits, "then who did?"
Estelle opened her mouth, her lips trembling, but no words came out. Her eyes darted frantically around the room, searching for an escape, an excuse, a scapegoat. She was trapped in a web of her own vanity and ambition.
Adrian slowly turned his head away from his fiancée. He was a veteran of the underworld; he knew when a cornered rat was holding back the name of an accomplice to save herself. Estelle was too cowardly to strike the match herself. She had used a proxy.
His sharp gaze shifted back to the young housemaid standing resolutely beside Agnes’s chair.
Ivy Bennett had not moved an inch. Her slender figure, defined by the sophisticated black maid dress and white apron, stood tall and unyielding. The twisted bun of her dark hair remained perfectly neat. Her expressive almond-shaped eyes were locked onto Adrian, blazing with a fierce, quiet intelligence.
"Ivy," Adrian said, his deep voice changing frequencies, adopting a tone of intimate, terrifying demand.
Ivy met his eyes. She was just a maid in a room full of billionaires, but in that moment, she held all the power. She knew the inner workings of the Kingsley estate better than anyone. She cleaned the offices, she emptied the wastebaskets, and she heard the whispered phone calls in the dead of night.
May you like
"Yes, Mr. Kingsley," Ivy answered, her voice steady and clear.
"You brought her here tonight. You bypassed my security," Adrian said, taking a slow step toward the beautiful maid. "You knew Estelle was involved before she even opened her mouth."
