Chapter 2 - THE BROKEN CREST
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The ballroom fell so quiet that the crystal prisms of the chandeliers seemed to hum in the silence.
Every head at the surrounding tables turned toward the eastern doorway where Gabriel stood.
He did not look like a man arriving late to his cousin’s wedding.
He looked like a judge who had already signed the execution orders.
His dark eyes remained locked onto my bandaged knuckles.
Beside him, two of his personal guards stepped into the room, their expressions carved from stone.
Elena Romano did not back down, but the false warmth in her eyes hardened into brittle defense.
“Gabriel, don't make a scene in front of the Senator and the council,” she said, her voice smooth as chilled silk.
Gabriel did not look at his mother.
He walked toward me, each heavy stride parting the sea of guests like water before a prow.
His black three-piece suit was impeccably tailored, masking the dangerous power in his broad shoulders.
He stopped less than an inch from where I stood.
The familiar scent of cedarwood, cold rain, and faint gun oil washed over my senses.
Without saying a word, he reached down and took my right wrist.
His fingers were warm, steady, and terrifyingly gentle against my skin.
He lifted my hand into the golden light of the chandeliers.
I tried to pull back, embarrassed by the raw purple bruising peeking past the white gauze.
Gabriel tightened his grip just enough to keep me still without causing pain.
His thumb traced the edge of the swelling along my third knuckle.
“You didn't answer me, Catherine,” he said, his voice dropping into a register that made the hairs on my arms stand up.
“Who laid hands on my wife?”
Elena scoffed softly, picking up her wineglass with a dismissive flick of her wrist.
“She had a minor disagreement with Arthur downstairs regarding the inventory,” his mother said casually.
“The girl is clumsy, Gabriel.”
“She dropped an antique tureen and cut herself on the porcelain.”
“I merely suggested she clean herself up and eat where she wouldn't embarrass the family.”
Gabriel turned his head slowly toward his mother.
The sheer coldness in his gaze wiped the smirk from Elena’s lips before she could take a sip.
“Arthur doesn't touch the silver,” Gabriel said softly.
“Arthur hasn't touched the silver in twenty years.”
Across the table, Uncle Vittorio was still trying to tap a message into his phone under the tablecloth.
Gabriel’s eyes snapped toward him like an eagle spotting movement in the grass.
“Put the phone on the table, Vittorio,” Gabriel commanded.
Vittorio froze, his hand half-submerged beneath the heavy linen.
“Gabriel, I’m just checking the port schedules for the morning shipment,” Vittorio stammered.
“I said put it on the table.”
The silence in the room stretched until it felt like a wire about to snap.
Vittorio slowly brought his phone into the light and placed it face-down beside his silver bread plate.
Gabriel turned his attention back to me, his dark eyes searching my face for every hidden truth.
“Arthur was in the wine cellar, wasn't he?” Gabriel asked, his thumb still resting against my pulse point.
I swallowed the dry lump in my throat, acutely aware of sixty guests listening to every breath.
“Yes,” I whispered.
“He had three duffel bags packed with the nineteen-twenty-two heirloom service.”
“He was loading them into the service van behind the kitchen loading dock.”
A collective gasp rippled through the older members of the Romano family.
The nineteen-twenty-two service was the founding silver of the dynasty, brought from Palermo by Gabriel’s grandfather.
It had been missing since midnight yesterday.
“And what happened to your hand?” Gabriel asked, his voice deceptively calm.
“He tried to close the heavy iron cellar grate on my fingers when I grabbed the handles of the bags,” I answered.
“He said if I screamed, he would make sure my father’s warehouse burned down before morning.”
At the far end of the room, the sound of a champagne glass shattering against the hardwood floor broke the tension.
Nicholas, the groom, had risen from the bridal table, his young face pale with fury.
Gabriel didn't raise his voice.
He didn't shout.
He simply turned toward his head of security, a towering man named Marco standing by the archway.
“Bring Arthur into the private salon,” Gabriel ordered.
May you like
“And lock the estate gates.”
“Nobody leaves this wedding until I know who paid him to touch what belongs to me.”
