Chapter 4
The doors to the grand dining room swung open, and Celia emerged, carrying a silver serving tray with practiced, flawless grace. The warm golden light from the crystal chandeliers caught the pristine white of her apron and the crisp cuffs of her sophisticated black maid dress. She moved silently across the polished hardwood floor, navigating the maze of champagne velvet chairs and powerful guests with elegant precision.
Just outside the heavy mahogany doors, standing perfectly still in the brightly illuminated hallway, was Juliet. The presumed-dead wife of the mafia boss waited in her plain house dress and cardigan, her heart hammering a frantic rhythm against her ribs. She stayed just out of Everett’s initial line of sight, trusting the young housemaid to execute their desperate plan.
Celia approached the head table, stopping directly beside Everett’s right shoulder. She lowered the silver tray and carefully placed a small, fine porcelain bowl of rice pudding directly before him. The subtle, unmistakable aroma of orange zest and crushed cloves drifted upward, cutting through the scent of expensive perfumes and roasted meats.
Everett’s cold, observant eyes dropped to the bowl. His refined, tattooed fingers reached out, picking up the heavy silver spoon resting beside the porcelain. He scooped a small amount of the pudding and raised it to his lips.
As the flavor registered on his tongue, a violent, invisible shockwave ripped through his entire body.
Recognition stilled Everett’s angular face completely. The cold detachment in his eyes fractured, replaced by a sudden, agonizing clarity. He knew this taste. He had mourned the woman who made it for six agonizing months. He lowered the silver spoon slowly, the metal clinking softly against the edge of the bowl.
He didn't yell. He didn't draw a weapon. Everett turned his head with measured, terrifying slowness, looking directly at Celia.
"Celia," Everett said. His deep, low voice dropped a full octave. He allowed a deliberate, controlled pause to stretch after her name, letting the sheer gravity of his tone suffocate the room.
Every single guest stopped eating. Conversations died in their throats. Dozens of powerful men and women turned their heads toward the head table in total, absolute silence.
"Who made this?" Everett asked.
The question hung in the bright, luminous air, heavy and lethal.
Amara, sensing the sudden shift in the atmosphere, smoothly adjusted her posture. The sculpted satin of her evening gown rustled softly. She met Everett’s stunned, intense gaze with a faint, reassuring smile, projecting the image of a devoted, loving fiancée attempting to accept a compliment on behalf of the staff.
"Just the kitchen staff, darling," Amara said, her voice remaining smoothly melodic, dripping with manufactured affection.
May you like
She offered the lie with effortless perfection, but her eyes frantically searched Everett’s sharp, handsome face for any sign of agreement. After speaking, Amara shifted her gaze, delivering a brief, razor-sharp warning glance directly at Celia, a silent promise of violence if the maid dared to speak.
Celia held Everett’s gaze. She did not flinch under the weight of the mafia boss's stare, nor did she cower from Amara's threat. Instead, she took a single, deliberate step slightly to the side.
