Chapter 7
The hollow, echoing question hung in the bright, cinematic air of the ballroom, demanding an answer that would dictate who lived and who died before morning. Nerissa Valegrove stared back at her nephew, the color completely drained from her fair, aging face. The pearl jewelry around her neck seemed to tighten like a noose. She looked frantically toward the fifty guests, the powerful syndicate members she had spent months courting and bribing, searching for a single ally to stand with her.
No one moved. The guests remained perfectly still by the crowded banquet tables, their eyes fixed on the floor or on the terrifying figure of the mafia boss. They were sharks, and they smelled blood in the water. They knew better than to interfere when a boss discovered treason within his own bloodline.
Nerissa’s two bodyguards, the massive men who were supposed to protect her, took another synchronized step backward, their dark suits blending into the shadows near the service entrance. They were mercenaries, paid to intimidate, not to die defending a woman who had just been outed for murdering the boss's wife.
"Lysander, please," Nerissa stammered, her voice cracking, completely losing the cold, aristocratic tone she had wielded moments before. "She is a lying servant! You cannot possibly believe this... this peasant over your own flesh and blood! She is trying to turn you against your family to secure her own position!"
Lysander did not blink. His dark, intense eyes remained locked on the woman trembling in the upholstered chair. He gently withdrew his hand from Isolde’s grasp, though he kept his broad, masculine frame positioned protectively in front of the housemaid.
"Do you expect me to believe a housemaid would risk her life in a room full of armed men simply to tell a lie, Nerissa?" Lysander asked, his voice returning to its deep, measured cadence, though it vibrated with a terrifying, apocalyptic calm.
He took a slow, deliberate step toward her. The tailored fabric of his dark suit pulled tight across his powerful shoulders. The artistic tattoos on his hands flexed as his fingers curled into fists.
"I was protecting the family!" Nerissa shrieked, panic finally shattering her elegant facade. She pointed a shaking finger at him. "Your wife was weak, Lysander! She didn't understand our world! She was going to take you away from the business, convince you to go legitimate! I had to stop her to save the syndicate! I did it for you!"
The confession echoed off the high, vaulted ceilings, sealing her fate. She hadn't denied the murder; she had justified it.
Lysander stopped just two feet away from the upholstered chair. He looked down at the woman who shared his blood, his sharp jawline set in stone.
"Did you honestly believe you could murder the woman I loved and I would thank you for the privilege?" Lysander asked, his voice dropping into a lethal whisper that silenced the entire room.
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He didn't wait for her to answer. He turned his head slightly, his gaze sweeping over the two bodyguards hovering near the doors.
"Are you men going to draw your weapons in defense of a dead woman, or are you going to leave this estate while you still have legs to carry you?" Lysander asked softly.
