Seraphina POV
I gently placed the heavy brass receiver back onto its cradle. The click echoed like a gunshot in the suffocating silence of the Grand Ballroom.
No one moved. The clinking of crystal glasses had ceased; even the breathing of New York's most dangerous elite seemed to have paused. I could hear the sharp, ragged intake of breath from Luca Mendoza standing just behind Damien. The Consigliere was staring at me, his previous disdain entirely replaced by a cold, calculating wariness.
I turned my attention back to my so-called family. Bianca's face was the color of ash. Her knuckles were white as she gripped the cheap emerald fabric, her body trembling so violently she looked ready to collapse. Beside her, Elena stared at me, the mocking superiority in her eyes completely swallowed by pure, unadulterated terror and venom.
I didn't say a word. I simply walked back to Damien's side. I could feel the weight of his gaze on me-dark, heavy, and intensely probing. It was no longer just the possessive stare of a man claiming his property; it was the sharp, intrigued look of a predator who had just realized his prey had teeth.
The silence stretched, thick and humiliating, until Bianca finally broke it with a pathetic sob.
"I... I was tricked!" she cried out, tears spilling over her carefully powdered cheeks. "The boutique swore it was authentic! I only wanted to do something nice for you, Sera!"
Elena immediately rushed forward, wrapping a protective arm around her golden child. She shot me a look of profound disappointment, her voice trembling with manufactured grief. "Sera, she is your sister! How could you humiliate her like this in front of everyone over a simple misunderstanding? Have you no heart?"
Before I could even formulate a response to their sickening performance, heavy footsteps approached. My father, Ricardo Castillo, pushed his way through the crowd. Sweat beaded on his forehead. As an Associate clinging to the fringes of the Moretti empire, he knew exactly what this public spectacle could cost him.
He didn't look at Bianca or Elena. He immediately bowed his head to Damien. "Mr. Moretti, I apologize for this... this trivial family dispute."
Then, Ricardo turned to me. The subservience vanished, replaced by the harsh, dismissive glare I had known my entire life. "Enough, Seraphina! It is just a dress! You insist on making a scene and turning the Castillo family into a laughingstock over your petty jealousy? Apologize to your sister immediately!"
I stared at the man who contributed half my DNA. It shouldn't have hurt. I had spent years watching them credit Bianca for the company accounts I saved, watching them push me into the shadows. Yet, hearing him demand I apologize for exposing their cruelty was the final strike of the hammer. The last fragile thread tying me to this family snapped, leaving nothing but cold, empty air.
I opened my mouth to tell Ricardo exactly where he could shove his apology, but a large, warm hand suddenly gripped my lower back.
Damien stepped forward, smoothly positioning himself half in front of me. The subtle shift in his stance was a physical barrier between me and my father.
"Mr. Castillo," Damien said. His voice was a low, smooth baritone, but it carried the lethal edge of a drawn blade. He was smiling, but the expression didn't reach his dead, obsidian eyes. "I have a particular fondness for settling accounts."
Ricardo swallowed hard, the color draining from his already pale face. "D-Don Moretti..."
Damien's gaze drifted lazily to the counterfeit gown crumpled on the floor, then snapped back to Bianca, pinning her in place. "Since your daughter was merely 'tricked' and her intention to gift my fiancée an authentic Madame Valeriana was genuine... it is only fair that the value of that intention is honored."
The ballroom temperature seemed to drop ten degrees.
"Eight hundred thousand dollars," Damien stated, the number hanging in the air like an executioner's axe. "I imagine such a sum is nothing for a family as sincere as the Castillos. Transfer it to my fiancée. Now."
Ricardo looked as if he had been physically struck. His lips parted, but no sound emerged. He was trapped. To argue was to defy a Don's Command, a death sentence in our world.
I stood behind Damien, inhaling the intoxicating scent of expensive cologne and gunpowder radiating from him. My heart hammered against my ribs. I couldn't understand it. This ruthless, blood-soaked Mafia King had no reason to defend me. He could have let them tear me down. Instead, he was burning them to the ground for disrespecting what belonged to him.
