The air in the room seemed to vanish, sucked out by the sheer gravitational pull of Francesco's rage. He didn't shout. He didn't run. He walked into the room with a terrifying, predatory slowness.
He walked past Preston as if he didn't exist. He went straight to Annelise.
"Uncle Fran, she's faking it!" Preston stammered, lowering his hand. "She attacked Felicia! She's... she's crazy! You didn't see what she did!"
Francesco ignored him. He crouched down beside Annelise. He took off his suit jacket, draping the heavy, warm fabric over her shoulders.
"Annelise?" he asked softly.
She looked up. Her eyes were wet with tears. She was shaking so hard her teeth chattered.
"I'm sorry," she sobbed, clutching the lapels of his jacket. "I'm so clumsy. I made him mad."
Francesco saw the blood. A shard of the vase had sliced her calf. A thin line of crimson ran down her leg, soaking into her sock.
He stood up. He turned to Preston.
Preston took a step back, hitting the wall. "Uncle Fran, listen to me. She twisted Felicia's wrist! She threatened to break her arm!"
"I see a woman on the floor bleeding," Francesco said. "And I see a man with his hand raised."
"She's lying!" Felicia screeched from the corner. "Look at my dress!"
"Silas," Francesco said without looking back.
Silas appeared in the doorway. "Sir."
"Remove Ms. Carson. If she speaks again, ban her from all Lancaster properties. Permanently."
Silas nodded and grabbed Felicia by the elbow, dragging the protesting woman out of the room.
Francesco stepped closer to Preston. He towered over him.
"You come into my hospital," Francesco said, his voice a low rumble. "You threaten my ward."
"She's not a ward! She's a psycho!" Preston yelled, desperate now. "She knows things about the accounts! She's not who she says she is!"
Francesco reached out. His hand clamped around Preston's throat. He didn't squeeze to choke; he squeezed to control. He lifted Preston onto his toes, pinning him against the wall.
"You are a disappointment, Preston. You always have been. But now, you are a nuisance."
Francesco leaned in close. "If I ever see you within ten feet of her again, I will not call the police. I will break your legs myself. Do you understand?"
Preston gurgled, his face turning purple. He nodded frantically.
Francesco released him. Preston slumped to the floor, gasping for air.
"Get out."
Preston scrambled to his feet and ran. The door slammed shut behind him.
Silence returned to the room, heavy and thick.
Francesco took a deep breath, composing himself. He turned back to Annelise. She was still on the floor, watching him. Her eyes were wide, but the fear... the fear seemed different now.
He walked over and knelt again. He reached out, his fingers hovering near her face. He gently took the glasses off her nose, setting them on the table.
"Did he hit you?" Francesco asked.
"No," Annelise whispered. "You stopped him."
She reached up, her hand trembling, and touched his cheek. Her fingers brushed against the rough stubble of his jaw.
"Thank you," she said.
Francesco felt a strange tightness in his chest. He hated weakness. He despised tears. But seeing her like this, so small in his oversized jacket, ignited a protective instinct he didn't know he possessed.
"It's over," he said roughly. "I'll handle them."
He scooped her up into his arms, mindful of the glass. He carried her to the bed and set her down.
"Rest," he commanded.
Annelise lay back against the pillows. She watched him walk to the window, his shoulders tense. She allowed herself a small, imperceptible smile.
The King was moving his pieces exactly where she wanted them.
