“I am your equal!” she screamed, her fair skin splotchy with rage. “I am the daughter of a boss! I did what I had to do to protect our future! The Whitmore family demands respect, Silas!”
“Do you mistake petty, vindictive assault for a demonstration of power?” Silas asked, stepping back and adjusting his tailored vest. “Are you truly so weak that you must torture a harmless maid to feel secure in your own position?”
The grand illusion of the engagement dinner was entirely broken. The clean whites of the table linens felt mocking, a symbol of purity in a room deeply stained by malice. Daphne glared at the beautiful, gentle maid who stood protected by the mafia boss’s formidable presence. The reality that Silas was taking Nora’s side over a critical mafia alliance was incomprehensible to her.
“You are making a catastrophic mistake!” Daphne screamed, her voice echoing off the gilded mirrors. “My father will not stand for this disrespect! You are taking the word of a gold-digging maid over the daughter of the southern syndicate! We will cut off your supply lines! We will starve your empire, Silas!”
Silas did not flinch. His hands remained casually at his sides, his neatly trimmed stubble casting sharp shadows along his jawline.
“Do you assume that threatening my supply lines will somehow repair the violence you inflicted in my home?” Silas asked, his deep voice slicing through her hysteria.
“You need me, Silas!” Daphne shrieked, pointing wildly at him. “You need my family’s money. You cannot survive the coming war without our backing!”
“Do you truly believe a man who built an empire from blood and ash requires the permission of your father to survive a war?” Silas asked, his cold stare pinning her against the edge of the dining table. “Have you completely forgotten who you are speaking to, Daphne?”
Daphne fell silent, her chest heaving as the terrifying reality of Silas’s reputation finally eclipsed her arrogant entitlement. He was not a businessman who could be bullied; he was a ruthless, calculating apex predator. And she had just attacked the one thing he secretly cherished.
“What are you going to do?” Daphne whispered, the color draining from her rosy skin as she realized her physical vulnerability.
“Did you think you would simply walk out the front door after terrorizing a woman under my protection?” Silas asked.
Without breaking eye contact, Silas raised his right hand, the artistic tattoos on his fingers stark against the warm golden light. He snapped his fingers once. The heavy, carved walnut doors at the far end of the banquet hall swung open. Four of Silas’s personal enforcers stepped into the luminous, airy room, moving with silent, terrifying efficiency.
“Will you escort my former fiancée to the basement holding cells and ensure she has no access to a telephone?” Silas asked his enforcers, his measured voice echoing ominously.
“Holding cells?!” Daphne shrieked, stumbling backward. “No! You cannot lock me in a cell! I am Daphne Whitmore!”
The four large men descended upon her, grabbing her firmly by the arms, entirely ignoring the expensive satin of her evening gown. Daphne thrashed and kicked, her dress shoes scrambling against the cream marble floor, but she was effortlessly overwhelmed.
“He will kill you for this, Silas! He will slaughter you all!” Daphne screamed as they dragged her backward toward the service doors.
“Do you truly believe your father will go to war for a daughter who sits rotting in my dungeon?” Silas asked softly, watching the doors slam shut and cut off her hysterical shrieks.
