Chapter 3
The heavy, ringing silence that followed the departure of the guests was broken only by the soft, shallow panting of the elderly German shepherd. Bruno rested his graying muzzle on his paws, his bandaged leg standing out starkly against the dark blanket.
Rosalyn backed further away from the head table, her heels clicking unsteadily against the polished floor. She wrapped her arms around her waist, a defensive posture that crushed the luxurious satin of her expensive gown. Her diamond earrings shook as she wept, her carefully constructed facade entirely destroyed under the warm golden light of the chandeliers.
"Bastian, you cannot do this," Rosalyn sobbed, her chest heaving as tears streamed down her pale cheeks. "My family arranged this marriage! We are supposed to unite our syndicates! Are you really going to throw all of our power away because of a dog and a maid?"
Bastian stood immovably in his tailored dark three-piece suit. He slowly crouched down, bringing his handsome, angular face level with his son’s.
"Can you tell me exactly what happened before the dinner, Evan?" Bastian asked gently, his deep voice softening significantly to comfort the boy.
Evan sniffled, rubbing his nose with the back of his small hand. He looked at Mira, who gave him an encouraging, tearful nod, before looking back into his father's cold, perceptive eyes.
"I was in the hallway," Evan explained, his American accent trembling but remarkably clear. "I accidentally stepped on Rosalyn's dress. She got really mad. She raised her hand and hit me on the shoulder. Bruno saw it and jumped between us to stop her. Then she picked up a heavy vase and smashed it against Bruno's leg."
Rosalyn let out a blood-curdling scream of denial. "He is lying! The maid told him to say that! She has been trying to take my place!"
Bastian rose slowly to his full, towering height. He turned his broad, powerful shoulders toward his fiancée. The extremely short stubble on his jawline seemed to bristle with barely contained, explosive violence.
"Would Mira risk her life in this house to manufacture such a claim?" Bastian asked.
"Yes!" Rosalyn shrieked, pointing viciously at the housemaid. "Look at her! She thinks she is better than me just because she plays mommy to your little brat!"
Bastian didn't look at Mira. He kept his cold, observant eyes locked entirely on Rosalyn, dissecting her panic, reading the absolute guilt written plainly across her flushed, tear-stained skin. He had survived in the criminal underworld by being an unparalleled judge of human character. He knew when someone was lying to him, and he knew the awful, crushing weight of the truth.
"Are you capable of telling the truth, Rosalyn, or must I extract it from you?" Bastian asked, taking a slow, deliberate step toward her. His polished leather shoes clicked ominously against the floor.
"I love you, Bastian!" she wept, falling to her knees on the luxurious rug, the sculpted satin of her gown pooling around her. She clasped her hands together in a begging gesture. "Please, darling! My father forced me to be strict with him! He told me I needed to establish dominance over the boy! I didn't want to hurt him!"
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"Did you believe that abusing my son would secure your place at the head of this empire?" Bastian asked.
His voice dropped to a terrifying, gravelly whisper. It was a sound that had preceded the end of many men's lives. Rosalyn stared up at his movie-star handsome face, realizing with absolute, horrifying clarity that there was no escape. The mafia boss had heard enough, and the consequences would be severe.
