Chapter 4
The opulent grand salon was suffocatingly quiet. The ivory candles burning in their glass hurricane holders seemed to cast harsh, judgmental shadows over Serena’s emerald velvet gown. The elegant public smile that usually charmed the syndicate members had begun to fracture, leaving behind the faint, terrifying cracks of cornered panic.
Alina felt the crushing weight of fifty gazes, but the only eyes that mattered were the ones burning into hers. The mafia boss’s dark, intense stare was demanding absolute honesty. She knew that answering this question could easily seal her death warrant if the boss chose to believe his high-society fiancée over a disheveled servant.
Tears gathered heavily along Alina’s lower eyelids, making her highly expressive, clear eyes shine brilliantly in the golden light. She steadied a trembling breath, her chest rising and falling rapidly against her rumpled white apron.
She faced Tristan, drawing on a well of courage she didn't know she possessed. Her eyes filled with restrained tears, but she answered without raising the volume of her voice, keeping her tone incredibly quiet, yet carrying a devastating, undeniable truth that sliced through the silent room.
"Yes," Alina stated, her American accent unwavering. "Serena emptied the urn."
The devastating confession dropped onto the polished marble floor like toxic acid. Murmurs of absolute shock and outrage rippled through the syndicate members. The room was suddenly paralyzed. The woman destined to be the queen of the Crowne syndicate had just been publicly accused of desecrating human remains and physically tormenting a household servant out of sheer, petty malice.
"That is an outrageous lie!" Serena shouted, stepping forward, her diamond earrings swinging wildly. The aristocratic polish was completely gone. "She is a lying whore trying to ruin our evening, Tristan! It was just dust! She is trying to turn you against me to extort this family!"
"Do you expect me to accept the premise that a three-year-old child and a maid conspired to invent such a specific, treacherous lie, Serena?" Tristan asked, his deep voice effortlessly drowning out her frantic excuses.
"She is a toddler, Tristan!" Serena cried, pointing a shaking finger at Mabel. "Children have vivid imaginations! She is confused! You cannot take the word of a confused girl and a lying maid over your future wife!"
"Is it your custom to blame my daughter for the treacherous, psychopathic optics that you orchestrated in my own home?" Tristan asked, his tone so terrifyingly calm that several guests physically recoiled.
"I am protecting this family's image!" Serena shrieked defensively, slamming her manicured hands against her emerald velvet gown. "She is overstepping her boundaries! She is constantly coddling the girl! I had to assert dominance to remind the staff of their place! She was keeping filthy ashes in the staff quarters!"
Serena’s eyes briefly flicked toward the attentive, silent guests, calculating the political damage of the moment. When her gaze returned to Tristan, the last remnants of her careful, composed smile faded entirely. She lifted her chin, attempting to project an aura of untouchable aristocratic defiance, meeting his gaze with controlled defiance. She believed her family's power could still shield her from his wrath.
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"I disposed of a biohazard," Serena stated coldly, her voice dropping into a ruthless, uncompromising tone. "I did what was necessary for the hygiene of this estate."
The sheer audacity of the confession, delivered in the presence of the mafia boss and his entire syndicate, was staggering. She had not denied the desecration; she had merely attempted to justify it as her absolute right as the future matriarch.
