Chapter 3
The silence in the grand dining room was a physical, suffocating pressure. The tall ivory candles flickering inside their brass candelabras seemed to be the only things moving in the entire, luminous space. The clear, cinematic lighting left absolutely no shadows for Camille’s cruelty to hide within.
Adrian held the heavy, black electronic collar in his hand. His thumb brushed over the metal prongs designed to deliver agonizing shocks to a five-month-old puppy. The sheer, calculated malice of concealing the torture device beneath a festive Christmas ribbon sickened him.
Before Adrian could demand an explanation from the woman sitting to his left, a small, fragile voice broke the terrifying tableau.
Owen, still sitting rigidly in his navy suit, slowly turned his head. The six-year-old boy looked directly at Camille, bypassing his father's imposing figure. His small hands gripped the fabric of his trousers, and he was visibly holding back tears, his fair cheeks flushed with distress.
"You kept pressing when Teddy cried," Owen said.
The childish American accent sliced through the heavy silence, exposing the absolute, monstrous cruelty of the woman in the emerald evening gown. Owen’s voice remained small and steady, carrying a frightened, unshakable certainty that cut straight to the bone.
Adrian froze. His entire body went rigid, the breath catching in his broad chest. He slowly set the removed shock collar down onto the pristine white tablecloth, the plastic device landing with a heavy, definitive clack beside his crystal glass.
He briefly looked toward Owen and the trembling spaniel. A flash of profound, quiet concern softened the harsh, angular lines of his face for a fraction of a second. His own child had been subjected to the psychological torture of watching a beloved pet suffer in silence.
Slowly, terrifyingly, Adrian turned his head. The movement was predatory, his gaze shifting away from his son and locking directly onto Camille. His sharply defined jaw tightened slightly, the very short stubble on his face bristling with suppressed, explosive violence. He held a cold, unwavering stare that promised absolute destruction.
Camille stared up at Adrian, her fair, rosy skin drained of all color, leaving her looking sickly and translucent. She gripped the fabric of her luxurious gown, her hands shaking violently. She opened her mouth to speak, to scream a denial, to call the child a liar, but her vocal cords were paralyzed by the sheer, overwhelming terror radiating from the mafia boss standing opposite her.
"Are you struggling to find a suitable explanation for my son's accusation, Camille?" Adrian finally asked.
His deep, controlled voice remained completely level. The measured pause between his words was a calculated instrument of psychological torture. He did not step toward her, but the sheer gravity of his presence pressed her against the wall.
"Adrian, darling, please," Camille gasped, her voice pitching high and breathless with panic. "He is just a child! He misunderstood! The dog was whining constantly while you were away! I was just trying to establish some discipline! I barely used the lowest setting!"
"Does establishing discipline require you to torture an animal in front of a six-year-old boy?" Adrian inquired, his perceptive eyes narrowing into cold slits.
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"The maid put him up to it!" Camille cried, tears of sheer desperation welling in her eyes. She pointed a shaking, diamond-adorned finger at Holly. "She wants to ruin our evening! She has been trying to poison him against me since the day I moved in!"
"Would my son fabricate a nightmare to destroy the foundation of our alliance?" Adrian asked, his voice echoing coldly off the cream marble columns.
