Chapter 6
The silence following the crash was heavy and suffocating, thick enough to drown in. The bright cinematic colors of the dining hall felt incredibly disjointed from the dark, impending execution hanging over the room. Tamsin pushed herself up onto her elbows, spitting blood from a cut lip onto her expensive dress. She stared up at Orson, the absolute terror finally breaking through her lifetime of privileged arrogance.
Orson took two slow, measured steps forward. He positioned himself directly between the wreckage of the dessert table and the chair where Mara sat quietly. He stood like an impenetrable fortress, a deeply masculine shield guaranteeing that nothing would ever harm his bloodline again.
He raised his tattooed hand, his family signet ring catching the bright natural light, and pointed a single, steady finger toward the heavy, ornate mahogany estate doors.
"You need to come outside with me for a little while," Orson said.
He growled the words through clenched teeth, his low voice vibrating with a lethal, inescapable promise. It was not a request. It was not an invitation. It was a death sentence delivered in front of the entire family.
Tamsin’s face became overwhelmingly frightened. The blood drained entirely from her fair, rosy cheeks, leaving her looking like a porcelain ghost. She looked frantically around the long dining table, desperate for an ally.
"Marcus! Paul!" Tamsin pleaded, her voice trembling violently as she looked at the senior capos. "He has lost his mind! You can't let him do this! I am his cousin! We share the same grandfather!"
None of the men moved. They kept their eyes firmly fixed on the white linen tablecloth, entirely unwilling to meet her desperate gaze. In the world of the Bellori syndicate, challenging the Don was a foolish endeavor. Endangering the Don’s child was an absolute guarantee of a closed-casket funeral.
"Orson, please," Tamsin wept, scrambling backward until her back hit the wall. "I was just trying to help the family! I was trying to show them that you are strong! You don't need to do this!"
Orson did not respond. He merely tilted his head slightly, his cold, sharp eyes remaining fixed on the estate doors.
The two bodyguards took a simultaneous step forward. They reached down, grabbing Tamsin roughly by the arms of her luxurious dinner gown, and hauled her forcefully to her feet. She kicked and thrashed, her heels slipping on the crushed pastries and broken plates, but she was completely powerless against the raw strength of the suited men.
"Daddy?" Mara whispered softly from her chair, her tiny hands clutching the inhaler.
Orson’s terrifying demeanor softened for a fraction of a second. He turned his head slightly toward his daughter. "Eat your dessert, Mara. Daddy has to handle some business. I will be back before you finish your cake."
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"Okay, Daddy," she replied, swinging her little legs.
Orson turned his back on the dining table and followed the bodyguards as they dragged his screaming, hysterical cousin out of the bright, sunlit room and into the cold shadows of the hallway.
