Chapter 9
The silence stretched, vibrating like a piano wire pulled to its absolute breaking point. The bright video colors of the elegant dresses worn by the female guests suddenly felt like neon targets painted directly on their backs.
Marciano slowly walked the length of the long birthday table. He examined the crystal champagne glasses, the half-eaten appetizers, and the folded linen napkins. He was a predator stalking his captive prey.
“Loyalty is the absolute foundation of this syndicate,” Marciano whispered, his voice sending a chill down the spines of his most hardened capos. “To betray my sister is to betray me. To bring that betrayal into my home is an act of war.”
He stopped near the center of the table. He reached out and picked up a pristine, white cloth napkin that had been discarded near a half-empty champagne flute.
He held it up to the light.
Pressed into the white linen, perfectly matching the shade of the violent, dark red smudge that had been on Harlan’s neck, was a distinct lip print.
Marciano stared at the napkin. The sheer, audacious disrespect of the act caused his sharply defined jawline to tighten. The mistress hadn't just attended the party; she had sat at the family table, drinking his champagne, laughing with his sister, all while carrying the secret of her treason.
He slowly lowered the napkin, turning his cold, dead eyes back to the crowd.
“The woman who left this mark believed she was clever,” Marciano said, his volume dropping into a quiet, lethal register. Every syllable sounded measured, cold, and unspeakably dangerous. “She believed that Harlan’s protection extended to her. She believed the D’Angelo family was blind.”
He dropped the napkin back onto the mahogany table. He rested his hand on his family signet ring, rotating it slowly around his finger.
“I am going to ask a question,” Marciano announced to the silent room. “And I will only ask it once. The person who answers truthfully will be granted a swift, painless exit from this city. The person who lies to me will be taken to the soundproof basement of this publishing house, and they will spend the next three weeks begging for the end.”
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The terrifying promise of torture hung in the bright, cinematic air. Several women at the table began to weep silently, their fair skin pale with sheer, unadulterated terror.
Marciano stepped away from the table, planting his polished shoes firmly on the hardwood floor. He crossed his arms over his tailored dark vest, a monument of impending doom.
