Chapter 3
The silence in the grand dining gallery was absolute, a heavy vacuum waiting to be filled by inevitable violence. The gentle golden highlights of the chandeliers seemed to spotlight the impossible tableau at the center of the room: the untouchable mafia boss, the gasping usurper, and the beautiful housemaid who had just rewritten the rules of engagement.
Thaddeus was leaning against the padded chair, groaning as wine soaked the front of his expensive formal suit, desperately trying to wipe the liquid away before it touched his skin. The two massive bodyguards stood awkwardly over him, their weapons undrawn, unsure of how to proceed. They had been paid to restrain Lowell, but the sudden intervention of a civilian maid and the boss's newly freed status paralyzed their training.
Benedetta did not press her attack. She immediately retreated, turning her back on the armed guards, and returned directly to Lowell’s side. Her hands were trembling so fiercely that she struggled for a fraction of a second to coordinate her movements.
She carefully supported his elbow as he stood up, his towering frame dominating the space. With a shaking hand, she reached up and gently loosened his twisted necktie, her fingers brushing against the refined tattoos on his neck.
Her expressive brows remained drawn with profound worry as she checked his breathing, her eyes scanning his face for any sign that the poisoned wine had touched him.
"I'm fine, Benedetta," Lowell said quietly, his voice a low, magnetic rumble.
He reached up, his large, tattooed hand gently covering her trembling fingers as they rested against his chest. The brief contact of their skin sent a jolt of electricity straight to her core, grounding her amidst the terrifying reality of what she had just done.
Around them, guests slowly rose from their chairs. The realization that they were now trapped inside a locked estate with an angry, betrayed mafia boss washed over the crowd. The coup had failed spectacularly, and their only hope for survival was absolute, immediate silence.
Lowell did not draw a weapon. He remained incredibly still, projecting an aura of relaxed, terrifying dominance. He reached out and picked up the private wine decanter that had been sitting near the unsigned document.
He walked slowly around the edge of the polished walnut table, keeping Benedetta securely by his side. He placed the private decanter directly in front of Thaddeus, setting it down with a heavy, final thud.
"Why are you afraid of your own toast, Uncle?" Lowell asked quietly, his voice dropping to a terrifying, deadly whisper.
Thaddeus stared at the bottle without touching it. The color completely drained from his face, turning a sickly shade of ash. He swallowed hard, his eyes darting frantically around the room, seeking an ally among the capos.
"This is a misunderstanding," Thaddeus stammered, his American accent cracking with sheer panic. "I was just trying to show them you were weak! The commission demanded a stronger hand!"
"Does a strong hand rely on a cheap poison during a Christmas banquet?" Lowell inquired, his observant eyes narrowing. "Or does a strong hand crush a rebellion before it can even draw breath?"
The two bodyguards remained beside Thaddeus's chair, but they took a subtle, collective half-step backward, pressing themselves against the table. They knew a lost cause when they saw one.
May you like
Benedetta stayed close to Lowell, her hands reaching out to gently hold his bruised wrist where the guards had gripped him. The crowded gallery fell utterly silent, waiting for the king to pass his judgment.
"Are you going to drink the wine, Thaddeus?" Lowell asked, his voice carrying flawlessly across the silent banquet tables. "Or will you finally admit what you put in it?"
