Chapter 4
The denial hung in the bright, airy dining room like smoke from a recently fired gun. The soft, elegant warmth of the cinematic lighting starkly illuminated the sheer terror now gripping Vivienne Shaw’s face. She looked frantically around the massive mahogany table, her eyes darting from the hardened capos to the wealthy politicians, desperately searching for an ally. No one moved. The elite members of the Ashford syndicate were entirely loyal to the man at the head of the table, and they recognized an execution when they saw one.
"She is lying?" Dominic repeated softly, the question slicing through the tension.
He slowly pushed his heavy velvet chair back. He stood up to his full, towering height, his powerful shoulders blocking the light from the nearest crystal chandelier, casting a long, intimidating shadow over the table. He didn't yell. The terrifying power of the mafia boss lay in his absolute, unyielding control.
He stepped smoothly away from his seat, moving between the terrified housemaid and his fiancée. He kept the small silver key enclosed tightly in his tattooed fist.
Vivienne looked directly up at him, her fair skin pale, forcing a patient, almost condescending smile onto her lips. It was a flawless performance designed for the surrounding guests, an attempt to portray herself as a beleaguered caretaker dealing with an incompetent staff.
"She wanders, Dominic," Vivienne said, her answer coming far too quickly. "You know how confused she gets at night. She almost fell down the stairs last week. It keeps her safe. It's for her own protection."
Dominic’s cold, perceptive eyes became completely still. The slight narrowing of his gaze was the only indication that the volcanic rage beneath the surface was beginning to boil. All the guests remained silent and utterly attentive, practically holding their breath.
"You chained my mother to a bed?" Dominic asked, his voice dropping into a lethal, vibrating hum that shook the crystal glasses. "You treated the woman who gave me life like a rabid dog?"
"I restrained her for her own safety!" Vivienne cried out, tears of genuine panic finally springing to her eyes. She reached across the table, her manicured fingers grasping at the empty air toward him. "She needs boundaries! She needs to be managed! I am running this household, Dominic! I am going to be your wife!"
"Are you?" Dominic asked. The two words carried a devastating, absolute finality.
He held Vivienne’s frantic gaze for a long, agonizing stretch of time. The silence stretched until it felt physically painful. He let the terror fully penetrate her mind before he finally delivered the killing blow.
"Then why call it your jewelry key?" Dominic asked.
His voice dropped, each word measured and heavy. The question destroyed her entire defense. If it was a medical necessity, there was no reason to lie about the key.
Vivienne’s forced smile froze on her face, completely brittle. Then, it collapsed entirely. Her perfectly painted lips parted, but no explanation came out. She stared back at him, the color draining rapidly from her rosy cheeks. Behind his broad shoulder, Nora watched with tearful uncertainty, clutching her injured wrist.
"Ethan!" Vivienne shrieked suddenly, her composure shattering completely. "Say something! Tell him it was necessary!"
Ethan Cole, her forty-year-old brother and a Mafia associate, had been sitting quietly near the center of the table. He had worn an expensive tuxedo and polished leather shoes, playing the part of the sophisticated guest. But the moment his sister called his name, implicating him in the abuse, he knew the diplomatic approach was dead.
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He pushed his chair back violently and stood up.
"She did what she had to do, Dominic!" Ethan shouted, drawing a weapon from inside his tuxedo jacket.
