Chapter 6
The observation struck the table with the force of a physical blow. Dahlia gasped, her hands flying to her own chest, staring at Walter's weathered hand in absolute horror. She had missed that detail in her panic. The room fell into a heavy, suffocating silence once more, the elite guests holding their breath as the mafia boss surgically dismantled his fiancée's lies.
Elise stood her ground. Her knees felt weak, and her heart hammered against her ribs, but she stepped slightly in front of Walter, her white apron acting as a fragile shield. She looked directly at Dahlia, disgusted by the venomous cruelty the woman was willing to inflict to maintain her status.
"He is not your father," Elise said. She spoke quietly, despite a slight, undeniable tremor in her breath, her voice carrying a shattering clarity across the silent banquet tables.
"You lying little rat!" Dahlia screamed, lunging forward across the table, her manicured hands outstretched as if to claw the maid's eyes out.
Damian moved with terrifying speed. He stood up, his broad shoulders blocking Dahlia’s path entirely. He didn't touch her; his mere physical presence was an impenetrable wall of dark wool and muscle that forced her to recoil, stumbling back into her velvet chair.
"Speak, Elise," Damian commanded, his voice a low rumble that promised protection.
Elise met his eyes, finding the quiet strength she needed in his unwavering gaze. She turned her attention back to the weeping, frantic woman in the emerald gown.
"Walter is your husband, Dahlia," Elise stated, the absolute truth falling like an executioner's blade into the room.
A collective, silent gasp rippled through the guests. The capos and politicians exchanged horrified, calculating glances. The woman set to marry the head of the syndicate was already married. The betrayal was monstrous.
"No! No, it's a lie!" Dahlia sobbed hysterically, shaking her head wildly. "She is trying to destroy me!"
Damian did not look at his fiancée. He kept his cold, observant eyes fixed on the exhausted, weathered man standing beside the housemaid. He assessed the heavy toll of survival etched into Walter's face, the quiet dignity that refused to break under the pressure of the opulent room.
With a slow, deliberate movement, Damian reached out. His heavily tattooed hand grasped the top of the empty velvet dining chair situated beside Elise.
He drew out the empty chair, the wooden legs scraping softly against the cream marble floor. He gestured toward it with a subtle nod of his head.
"Please, Mr. Merrick," Damian said, offering the seat with a terrifying, measured respect. "Take a seat. It seems we have a great deal of family history to discuss."
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Walter looked at the mafia boss, recognizing the lethal authority of the man, but also sensing a demand for the unvarnished truth. He nodded slowly.
"Thank you," Walter rasped, stepping past Elise and lowering his exhausted frame into the plush velvet chair, taking his rightful place at the table of the man who was supposed to replace him.
