Chapter 5
The aftermath of the violent impact hung in the bright, luminous air of the ballroom. The absolute silence was deafening. Nerissa sat stunned in the upholstered chair, rubbing her bruised shins, while her bodyguards remained frozen, their hands hovering near their holstered weapons. The fifty gala guests stared in unadulterated shock at the housemaid in the pristine white apron.
Isolde did not look at the gasping woman in the chair, nor did she acknowledge the towering, armed men preparing to execute her. She immediately turned her back on the chaos and focused entirely on Lysander.
Her hands were trembling so violently she could barely control them. She reached into the pocket of her black maid dress and pulled out a fresh, folded white linen napkin. She stepped intimately close to Lysander, completely invading the personal space of the terrifying mafia boss.
With agonizing care, Isolde gently took his right hand. The artistic tattoos on his knuckles were now marred by angry red crescent moons where Nerissa’s manicured nails had dug into his skin, leaving tiny flecks of dirt and broken skin.
Isolde’s expressive eyes filled with tears as she gently, methodically cleaned his dirt-marked knuckles with the soft white napkin. Her touch was incredibly tender, a stark, beautiful contrast to the violence that had just erupted.
Lysander did not pull away. He allowed her to hold his hand, the warmth of her small fingers grounding him in the chaotic room. He looked down at her neatly pinned hair and the white lace headband, his chest tightening with a profound, unspoken affection. She had just risked her life to protect his dignity.
Slowly, Lysander lifted his head. He looked directly at Nerissa, who was struggling to maintain her composure in the upholstered chair. His dark, swept-back hair caught the cinematic lighting, casting sharp shadows across his incredibly handsome, angular face. The cold, unyielding mask of the mafia boss slammed back into place, far more terrifying than before.
He didn't yell. His deep, measured voice was quiet, but it vibrated with a lethal, apocalyptic fury that resonated in the bones of every person in the room.
"I paid for every plate here," Lysander stated, the absolute authority in his voice leaving no room for argument or negotiation.
It was a reminder of who truly held the power. He owned the estate, he owned the syndicate, and he owned the very food they were fighting over.
Nerissa’s fair skin paled dramatically. She looked at the two bodyguards, realizing they were suddenly useless. They were paid by the estate, but the estate belonged to the man staring her down.
Isolde kept supporting his wrist, her thumb gently stroking the edge of his family signet ring. She looked up, her terrified eyes meeting his. She was visibly struggling to speak, her chest rising and falling rapidly as she prepared to deliver a truth that would tear the family apart.
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She leaned in closer, her voice a frightened, ragged whisper meant only for him, though it carried devastating weight.
"She starved your wife, too."
