Chapter 8
The crisp afternoon air suddenly felt suffocatingly cold to Tamsin. She stared into Orson’s sharp, intimidating eyes and realized, with absolute clarity, that no amount of financial leverage or family history was going to save her life. The man crouching before her was not the cousin she had grown up with; he was the devil in a tailored suit.
"Orson, please," Tamsin begged, her voice cracking as she pressed her hands together in a desperate plea. "I'll leave. I will pack my bags tonight and fly to Europe. I will transfer all the accounts back to your direct control. You will never see me again. I swear on my life."
"Your life is already forfeit," Orson murmured, his deep voice carrying a terrifying, hollow resonance. "But the manner of your passing depends entirely on your next answer."
Tamsin swallowed hard, her breath hitching. "What... what do you want to know?"
"You are arrogant, Tamsin, but you are not stupid," Orson said slowly, measuring every word. "You would never have dared to touch my daughter in a room full of my capos unless you believed you had protection. Unless you believed that my execution was already in motion, and you were simply establishing dominance for the new regime."
Tamsin’s eyes widened in sheer panic. The color completely drained from her rosy cheeks. "No! No, Orson, I acted alone! I swear I did!"
"Do not lie to me," Orson warned, his volume dropping to a lethal whisper. He reached out, his heavily tattooed hand gently tracing the collar of her ruined dinner gown. The light touch was infinitely more terrifying than a strike. "Who is planning the coup?"
"I don't know what you're talking about!" Tamsin sobbed, scrambling backward on the stone patio.
"If you do not give me a name," Orson said, standing up to his full height and looking down at her, "I will hand you over to the basement crew. They will keep you alive for a very, very long time. And every time you beg for death, they will ask you the same question."
Tamsin broke. The psychological pressure applied by the veteran Mafia boss was an unbearable, crushing weight.
"It's the Moretti family!" Tamsin shrieked, burying her face in her hands. "It's the Morettis! They approached me three weeks ago!"
Orson remained perfectly still. His expression did not change, but behind his cold eyes, a massive, violent tactical shift was occurring. The Moretti syndicate was their largest rival on the eastern seaboard. A fragile truce had existed between them for five years.
"And what did they promise you?" Orson asked smoothly.
"They promised me the seat!" Tamsin wept hysterically. "They said if I helped them bypass the security at the northern shipping ports, they would launch a coordinated hit on you and your loyalists. They promised to back my claim as the head of the Bellori family!"
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"And what of Mara?" Orson asked, his voice deadly calm.
Tamsin choked on a sob, entirely unable to look him in the eye. "They... they said there could be no heirs. They said the bloodline had to be wiped clean."
