Chapter 8
"Are you defining torture as character building, Isabel?" Lucian asked, his deep voice a low, vibrating rumble that shook the crystal glasses on the nearby tables.
"I am defining discipline!" Isabel shrieked, her voice losing its practiced elegance, pitching higher with defensive panic. "You spoil her! She needs to learn that the Cross family is in control now! I will be her mother, and she will learn to obey me!"
"You will never touch her again," Lucian stated calmly.
He moved with absolute, predatory precision. Lucian stepped decisively forward, inserting his masculine frame directly into the medium wide space beside Faye. He kept Rosie completely shielded, placing his body entirely between his daughter and the woman in the emerald gown.
Rosie rested her dust-covered cheek against Lucian’s dark jacket, her small hands holding tightly to his lapel. She buried her face in the expensive wool, exhausted and entirely unaware of the deadly politics exploding around her.
Lucian stood tall, creating an impenetrable physical shield of authority. He ensured that the open, dark floor hatch remained highly visible between Isabel and the watching guests, a glaring, undeniable testament to her monstrous cruelty.
Lucian fixed Isabel with a cold, unwavering stare.
"Isabel, darling, you must understand," a voice called out from the crowd. It was Arthur Cross, Isabel’s father and a powerful syndicate leader in his own right. "This is a misunderstanding. The girl is stressed by the wedding preparations."
"Does stress compel your daughter to attempt murder by exposure?" Lucian inquired, his perceptive eyes narrowing into cold slits as he looked at the older man, before returning his lethal gaze to Isabel.
"It wasn't murder!" Isabel cried, tears of sheer desperation welling in her eyes. "She is fine! Look at her, she is perfectly fine! You are making a catastrophic mistake, Lucian! You are breaking an alliance that took two years to build over a crying brat!"
"I am breaking a monster who dared to threaten my blood," Lucian replied coldly.
He slowly swept his gaze across the room, taking in the numerous capos, donors, and relatives sitting frozen on the burgundy velvet sofas. His eyes locked onto Vincent, his most trusted lieutenant.
"Have you all finished your champagne?" Lucian asked the room at large.
May you like
It was phrased as a polite question, but the command hidden within it was unmistakable and absolute.
Guests practically scrambled toward the exits. There were no polite farewells, no lingering handshakes. Men in tailored suits and women in expensive evening gowns fled the bright, elegant room with frantic urgency, eager to escape the blast radius of Lucian Hale’s wrath.
