Chapter 5
The heavy doors clicked shut, plunging the vast, luminous dining hall into a profound, ringing silence. The cascading crystal chandeliers continued to cast their warm golden light over the abandoned gold-rimmed porcelain and half-empty wine glasses. The opulent space, designed for celebration, now felt like a gilded execution chamber.
Beatrice backed away from the head table, her heels clicking unsteadily against the polished marble floor. She wrapped her arms around her waist, a defensive posture that crushed the sculpted satin of her expensive gown. Her diamond earrings shook as she wept, her carefully constructed facade entirely destroyed.
"Ronan, you cannot believe this," Beatrice sobbed, her chest heaving. "My family arranged this marriage! We are supposed to unite our syndicates! You are going to throw all of that away because of a jealous child?"
Ronan stood immovably in his tailored dark three-piece suit. He slowly crouched down, bringing his handsome, angular face level with his son’s.
"Can you tell me exactly what you saw that day, Micah?" Ronan asked gently, his deep voice softening to comfort the boy.
Micah sniffled, rubbing his nose with the back of his small hand. He looked at Della, who gave him an encouraging, tearful nod, before looking back into his father's cold, but loving, eyes.
"I was hiding at the top of the stairs," Micah explained, his voice trembling but remarkably clear. "Mommy was crying. Beatrice was yelling at her. Mommy tried to walk past her, and Beatrice pushed her really hard with both hands. Mommy fell all the way to the bottom. And then Beatrice looked right at me and said if I ever told you, she would make me fall, too."
Beatrice let out a blood-curdling scream of denial. "He is lying! The maid put him up to this! She has been trying to poison him against me since the day I moved in!"
Ronan rose slowly to his full height. He turned his broad, powerful shoulders toward his fiancée. The extremely short stubble on his jawline seemed to bristle with barely contained violence.
"Would Della risk her life in this house to manufacture such a claim?" Ronan asked.
"Yes!" Beatrice shrieked, pointing viciously at the housemaid. "Look at her! She thinks she's better than me just because she plays mommy to your little stray!"
Ronan didn't look at Della. He kept his perceptive eyes locked entirely on Beatrice, dissecting her panic, reading the guilt written plainly across her flushed, rosy skin. He had survived in the criminal underworld by being an unparalleled judge of human character. He knew when someone was lying to him, and he knew the awful, crushing weight of the truth.
"Are you capable of telling the truth, Beatrice, or must I extract it from you?" Ronan asked, taking a slow, deliberate step toward her.
"I love you, Ronan!" she wept, falling to her knees on the luxurious rug, the sculpted satin of her gown pooling around her. She clasped her hands together in a begging gesture. "Please, darling! She slipped! It was an accident! We were arguing, and she just tripped!"
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"Did she trip, or did you ensure she would never stand again?" Ronan asked.
His voice dropped to a terrifying, gravelly whisper. It was a sound that had preceded the end of many men's lives. Beatrice stared up at his movie-star handsome face, realizing with absolute, horrifying clarity that there was no escape. The mafia boss would not stop asking questions until he had torn her world apart to find justice.
