Chapter 3
The crackling of the ornate marble fireplace seemed deafening in the profound, suffocating silence of the dining hall. Marielle’s face, previously flushed with wine and the triumph of the evening, drained of all color until her rosy skin turned the shade of ash. Her diamond earrings trembled slightly as a subtle, uncontrollable shake took over her body.
Elias did not break eye contact with her. He slowly raised his tattooed hand, resting his knuckles on the polished walnut table. The silence stretched until it became agonizing, the elite guests holding their collective breath.
"Are you all waiting for my permission to leave the room?" Elias asked, his deep, low voice echoing across the long table. He didn't look at the guests; his cold eyes remained entirely fixed on his fiancée.
The question was a direct command. Instantly, the scraping of velvet dining chairs against the hardwood floor sounded like thunder. Dozens of capos, crime bosses, and politicians scrambled to their feet, abandoning their fine porcelain plates and crystal stemware. They moved with a hurried, terrified silence, practically sprinting toward the heavy silk curtains and out the grand double doors of the dining room. No one offered their goodbyes or dared to look back.
Within two minutes, the massive, luxurious room was entirely empty, save for the four of them: Elias, Marielle, Vera, and Edgar. The heavy mahogany doors clicked shut, echoing with a hollow finality.
"Elias, darling, please," Marielle whispered, her voice cracking as the reality of her isolation set in. She reached out across the table, her engagement ring flashing in the candlelight. "The man is delusional. Or worse, he is a grifter! You know how many people try to extort our kind of wealth!"
Elias slowly lowered his hand from the table. He looked at the trembling elderly mechanic, noticing the worn edges of his formal jacket, then back at the woman he was supposed to marry.
"Do you believe a grifter possesses the technical knowledge to sever the brake lines on an armored vehicle?" Elias asked. His measured pauses carried the weight of a death sentence.
"The maid set this up!" Marielle stammered, pulling her hand back as if the table had burned her. "She found a lookalike! She’s manipulating you! She hates me! She’s been trying to ruin this engagement since the day I moved in! She wants your money, Elias!"
Vera stood her ground, though her knees felt weak. She kept her hands folded over her apron, refusing to defend herself. The truth was already sitting in the chair; it didn't need her protection.
"Do you think I am blind to the face of a man who worked on my cars for twenty years?" Elias asked, stepping slowly around the edge of the table, his broad shoulders dominating the space. "Is murder the only way you could secure a velvet chair?"
"It wasn't like that!" Marielle shrieked, losing her aristocratic composure entirely. "She was holding you back! She was weak! You needed a queen, Elias! I deserved you!"
"Did you think I would crown a woman whose hands are stained with the blood of my family?" Elias asked, taking another slow, deliberate step toward her.
"You need me!" Marielle sobbed, real tears of panic finally spilling over her cheeks as she backed away, her satin gown catching on a velvet chair. "My family brought you the southern distribution lines! We built an alliance! If you touch me, my father will start a war that will burn this city to the ground!"
"Do you think the threat of a war frightens me more than a traitor sleeping in my bed?" Elias inquired, tilting his head slightly, the small neck tattoo shifting against his collar.
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He didn't wait for her to process the absolute lack of mercy in his eyes. He reached into the inner pocket of his tailored dark suit, his refined hand tattoos catching the golden light, and withdrew a heavy, encrypted mobile phone.
"Are you waiting in the grand foyer, Marcus?" Elias asked into the receiver. He paused, listening to his underboss. "Will you bring two men into the dining room immediately?"
