Chapter 7
The cinematic, natural lighting of the atrium offered absolutely no shadows for Charlotte to hide her total devastation. She lay sprawled among the decorative cushions, the champagne satin of her gown wrinkled and disheveled. She looked up at her husband, genuine, unadulterated terror finally shining in her eyes. The realization that her status as his wife offered her zero protection against his wrath crashed down upon her.
Xavier stood immovable in his burgundy silk suit. He gently adjusted Maya’s position in his arm, pressing a soft, reassuring kiss to the side of her head. The three-year-old girl was entirely quiet, her small face buried safely in the crook of his neck, shielded from the carnage.
He slowly turned his head. His cold, intimidating eyes swept over the terrified crowd of white American guests. He looked at the capos who had stood by and watched his daughter be humiliated.
"Liam," Xavier called out. His voice was a low, steady rumble that commanded immediate compliance.
The eight-year-old boy, who had scrambled out of the heavy dining chair during the violence, was shivering near the edge of the table. His fair face was ghostly pale.
"Come here," Xavier instructed, his tone losing its lethal edge but remaining firm.
Liam hesitated, glancing at his weeping mother on the floor, before slowly walking over to the towering Mafia Boss.
"You did not ask to sit in that chair," Xavier said, looking down at the boy with a measured, objective fairness. "This is not your sin. Go to your room. Close the door. Do not come out until I send for you."
"Yes, sir," Liam whispered, turning and running as fast as his polished loafers could carry him up the sweeping staircase, eager to escape the nightmare.
Once the boy was gone, Xavier slowly turned his piercing, predatory gaze back to Charlotte. He took one slow, deliberate step toward her. The polished black leather of his loafers made a sharp, echoing sound against the marble floor.
Charlotte scrambled backward, her hands slipping on the smooth leather of the overturned ottomans. "Xavier, please," she whimpered, her voice hoarse and broken. "It was a mistake. I was just trying to establish discipline. I am your wife. We are a family."
Xavier stopped just a few feet away from her. He looked directly at her, his angular face bathed in the bright light of the chandeliers.
"You took her chair," Xavier whispered.
His deep, raspy voice was dead calm. He spoke incredibly slowly, keeping his volume terrifyingly low, yet the measured cadence echoed clearly across the silent room. Every word sounded cold, sharp, and dripping with an apocalyptic promise.
"And packed her room," Xavier continued, his eyes devoid of any human empathy or forgiveness.
He tilted his head slightly, his gaze piercing straight through to her core.
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"Now," Xavier declared, the absolute finality in his tone leaving no room for negotiation or mercy, "pack yours."
Charlotte’s face became a portrait of pure, paralyzing fright. She opened her mouth to beg, to plead for her status, but the sheer, suffocating terror choking her throat prevented any sound from escaping. The execution of her aristocratic life was absolute.
