Chapter 3
The opulent dining hall was suffocatingly quiet. The ivory candles burning in their brass candelabras seemed to cast harsh, judgmental shadows over Vivienne’s luxurious emerald evening gown. The polished, reassuring smile that usually charmed the syndicate members felt entirely out of place against the sheer, vibrating tension rolling off Silas’s broad shoulders.
"A draft does not hum my daughter's bedtime melody, Vivienne," Silas said slowly, his voice dropping into a lethal register that made the nearest capos physically recoil in their velvet chairs.
"Silas, darling, the acoustics in this old mansion are terrible," Vivienne argued, her voice tightening slightly. "It was merely an echo. Or perhaps one of the serving girls in the hallway. Let us not ruin a beautiful Christmas Eve dinner over a trick of the ear."
"I am not asking you, Vivienne," Silas replied, his dark eyes never leaving the housemaid. The artistic tattoos on his hands flexed as he gripped the edge of the carved walnut table. "Nora. Open the door."
"Silas, I forbid this!" Vivienne shrieked, panic finally shattering her elegant facade. She stood up, pointing a manicured finger at Nora. "That room is strictly off-limits due to structural damage! Guards, remove this maid from the hall immediately!"
Two massive enforcers stepped forward from the shadows of the marble columns.
"If any man takes a step toward her, I will end his life before his foot touches the floor," Silas promised, his tone so terrifyingly calm that the highly trained mercenaries froze instantly.
Nora swallowed hard, her delicate features pale but resolute. She knew the consequences of disobeying the future wife of the boss, but the muffled sound behind the wood had broken her heart. She stepped forward, her graceful posture rigid with adrenaline. Her trembling hands reached out and gripped the heavy, exterior brass bolt.
With a loud, metallic scrape that echoed through the silent banquet hall, Nora released the bolt. She grabbed the brass handle and pulled the heavy paneled door wide open.
The bright, cinematic lighting of the dining hall spilled into the small, unused storage room. Standing in the center of the dust and shadows was Marianne Ashford. Thirty years old, she wore a plain, oversized cardigan over a simple, faded dress. Her fair skin was pale from six months without sunlight, and she appeared profoundly exhausted, her cheekbones hollowed. Yet, her eyes remained sharp, alert, and burning with a desperate, maternal fire.
The collective gasp from the fifty guests was deafening. Plates shattered as forks were dropped. The ghost of the syndicate had just materialized in the dining room.
Silas rose slowly to his full, towering height, his tailored dark three-piece suit casting a formidable shadow over the exquisite banquet table. He stared into the storage room, his angular face frozen in absolute, undeniable shock.
May you like
Nora stepped aside, keeping her hands clasped tightly over her white apron. She looked directly at Silas, her expressive eyes filled with tears, speaking quietly but clearly over the din of the panicked crowd.
"Your wife, sir," Nora stated. "Marianne."
