Chapter 7
The silence in the grand dining hall was absolute, a suffocating vacuum created by the sudden, terrifying shift in reality. The bright, elegant warmth of the crystal chandeliers continued to bathe the room, but the atmosphere had turned as cold as a morgue.
Malcolm Whitford remained perfectly still for three agonizingly long seconds. His cold, perceptive eyes did not leave his mother's face. The devastating grief and betrayal of the revelation washed over him, but he immediately buried the emotion deep beneath a fortress of calculated, masculine rage.
"Did my father also find himself unable to wake after consuming this blend?" Malcolm asked softly, his deep voice carrying a lethal, acoustic weight.
Evelyn nodded slowly, tears finally spilling over her rosy cheeks. "He was so tired at the end, Malcolm. He slept for days. She told me it was the progression of his illness."
Malcolm slowly turned his head. His eyes locked onto Lucinda.
Lucinda took a stumbling step backward, her high heels catching on the thick patterned rug. The sculpted satin of her evening gown seemed to lose its luster. She looked across the table at the man she had believed she could manipulate, realizing far too late that she had awakened a sleeping dragon.
"Malcolm, she is senile!" Lucinda shrieked, her American accent pitching into a hysterical, defensive frequency. She gripped the edge of the mahogany table, her knuckles turning white. "Your father died of heart failure! The coroner confirmed it! She is combining memories because she is grief-stricken!"
"Do coroners routinely test for exotic, untraceable botanicals during a standard autopsy?" Malcolm inquired, his tone dropping into a register of pure, concentrated ice.
"You are listening to an insane old woman and a jealous maid!" Lucinda cried, looking wildly around the table at the dozens of powerful guests, desperately seeking a single ally. But the men and women in their formal attire stared back at her with blank, horrified expressions. To assassinate a boss was one thing; to slowly poison him and then attempt to do the same to his widow was a line that even criminals did not cross.
"Are you suggesting that my mother and my housemaid conspired to fabricate a story regarding my father's death?" Malcolm asked, standing up slowly from his chair.
His towering, broad-shouldered frame dominated the head of the table. He stood as an immovable barrier between his family and the woman who had sought to destroy them.
"Yes!" Lucinda screamed, tears of panic ruining her pristine makeup. "They want me out of this house!"
"Is there any reason for them to want you gone, other than the poison you pour into their cups?" Malcolm questioned, gesturing with his tattooed hand toward the silver teapot resting on the tray.
He didn't wait for her to formulate another pathetic excuse. He turned his head slightly, his gaze sweeping over the silent, paralyzed guests.
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"Is this memorial dinner concluded?" Malcolm asked the room at large.
The question was rhetorical, a lethal command disguised as an inquiry. The guests immediately understood. Chairs scraped against the rugs as the most powerful men and women in the American mafia stood up in unison. They didn't speak. They didn't offer their goodbyes or polite pleasantries. They simply turned and began to file out of the luminous dining hall, desperate to escape the blast radius of the Boss's impending wrath.
