Chapter 6
The luminous, airy warmth of the dining room offered no solace to the woman kneeling on the patterned rug. Beatrice sobbed uncontrollably, her face buried in her manicured hands, her diamond engagement ring catching the bright light in a mocking display of failed ambition. The silence stretched, tight and unforgiving, broken only by her ragged, panicked weeping.
Ronan stood over her, an imposing monolith of masculine power. His polished leather shoes rested mere inches from the hem of her ruined silk gown. He waited, his patience a weapon as sharp and precise as a scalpel.
"Are you prepared to answer my question, or must I call my interrogators to assist you?" Ronan asked, his deep voice carrying a measured, lethal calm.
Beatrice flinched violently at the threat. She dropped her hands, her fair skin streaked with ruined mascara, her eyes wide with primal terror. She knew the stories of what Ronan Ellsworth did to traitors within his syndicate.
"She was weak!" Beatrice choked out, the venom finally breaking through her tears. "She didn't understand our world, Ronan! She was constantly begging you to leave the business! She was going to make you soft, and the rival families were going to slaughter us all!"
Della gasped softly, her hand flying to cover her mouth. The sheer, sociopathic justification of the murder was staggering. Beatrice wasn't just confessing; she was attempting to frame the murder as an act of absolute loyalty.
Ronan did not react physically. His high-bridged nose and sharply defined jawline remained locked in a mask of cold composure. But behind his perceptive eyes, a dark, violent calculus was rapidly computing the depth of the betrayal.
"Did you believe that murdering my wife would secure your place at my side?" Ronan asked quietly.
"I did it for the syndicate!" Beatrice pleaded, reaching out to grasp the leg of his tailored trousers. "My family is strong! We are built for this life! I was trying to protect your empire, Ronan! I was terrified that if she made you step down, my father would move against you! I had to protect myself!"
Ronan looked down at the trembling woman clinging to his leg. He felt absolutely nothing for her. The affection he had feigned for the sake of the syndicate merger evaporated instantly, leaving behind a cold, calculating void that craved only retribution.
"Do you expect me to harbor the murderer of my wife under my roof?" Ronan asked.
He didn't wait for her to answer. He reached down with his artistic, tattooed hands and forcefully peeled her fingers off his suit. He stepped back, severing all physical contact with her forever.
"Is there any reason I shouldn't have my men escort you to the basement immediately?" Ronan inquired, adjusting the cuffs of his shirt with immaculate precision.
"Ronan, please, you can't!" Beatrice wept, crawling forward on her knees. "My father will kill you when he finds out the engagement is broken! He will burn this city to the ground!"
"Are the consequences of your treason my concern?" Ronan asked.
He reached into his jacket and retrieved a sleek, encrypted smartphone. He dialed a single digit and pressed the phone to his ear. The small neck tattoo shifted seamlessly with the movement.
"Will you send a security detail to the grand dining room?" Ronan asked into the receiver. "Will you ensure Miss Sloan is escorted to the holding cells beneath the east wing?"
May you like
He lowered the phone and looked at the broken socialite one last time.
"Have you finally realized the price of your ambition, Beatrice?" Ronan asked softly.
