Chapter 8
The bright, natural sunlight pouring through the large windows felt entirely disconnected from the dark, suffocating tension inside the maternity suite. The bodyguards in the doorway nodded silently, pulling the heavy door shut and securing the electronic deadbolt from the inside. The distinct, metallic click echoed like a prison cell locking into place.
Margaret flinched at the sound. She stood shivering in her ruined, expensive clothes, completely isolated from the power and privilege she usually wielded.
"Adrian, you are overreacting," Margaret attempted to reason, though her voice shook violently. "You cannot lock me in here like a common criminal. I am your mother!"
"You are a suspect," Adrian corrected her coldly. He walked slowly toward the small seating area near the window, pulling a heavy, vinyl hospital chair into the center of the room. The polished leather of his shoes squeaked slightly against the linoleum. He pointed to the chair. "Sit."
"I will not be interrogated by my own son!" Margaret demanded, lifting her chin in a pathetic attempt to reclaim her dignity.
Adrian did not raise his voice. He simply stopped walking. His thick, nicely styled hair caught the cinematic light as he tilted his head, his sharp, intimidating eyes locking onto hers with absolute, predatory stillness.
"Sit down, Margaret," Adrian whispered, the measured pause between his words carrying a lethal weight. "Before I have my men strap you to it."
Margaret’s arrogance completely collapsed. Her fair skin turned a ghastly shade of white. She stumbled forward on her expensive heels and collapsed heavily into the vinyl chair, the dark, stained water pooling beneath her.
Linda moved defensively to the side of Emma’s bed, crossing her arms tightly over her cardigan, her eyes burning with a fierce, protective hatred as she glared at the woman who had tormented her daughter.
"Now," Adrian began, pacing slowly in front of the chair. "You claim you did not cut the bracelet. You claim your only intent was to humiliate Emma with the pigment. Let us assume, for a moment, that you are telling the truth."
Margaret nodded frantically, her jewelry rattling. "I am! I swear I am!"
"Then who gave you the pigment?" Adrian asked softly.
Margaret hesitated. Her eyes darted to the floor. The silence stretched for three agonizing seconds.
"A woman with your social standing does not walk into a theatrical supply store to purchase stage makeup," Adrian deduced, his deep, raspy voice echoing his razor-sharp intellect. "You did not formulate this plan alone. A sixty-three-year-old woman does not coordinate a distraction in a high-security VIP maternity ward without logistical support. Who whispered in your ear, Mother? Who convinced you that Emma was unfaithful?"
"It was... it was just rumors," Margaret stammered, avoiding his gaze. "People talk, Adrian. You are a powerful man. Women like Emma, from ordinary families... they seek out other men."
Adrian stopped pacing. He leaned down, placing both hands on the arms of her vinyl chair, trapping her completely. His masculine, angular face was inches from hers.
"If you value your life, and the life of whoever you are protecting," Adrian growled, his voice a terrifying, low rumble, "you will give me a name. Because if I have to discover it myself, I will not ask questions. I will simply start killing my capos until the rat exposes himself."
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Margaret’s breath hitched. She looked into her son's cold, dead eyes and realized he was not bluffing. He would slaughter his entire inner circle to protect his newborn son.
"It was Rossi," Margaret choked out, tears streaming down her face. "It was Carlo Rossi."
