You were born broken and left him empty-handed, so don't bring your bastard charity cases to my son's wedding.
The name “Victor Rossi” had an almost physical impact on Andrew and Evelyn. The opulent conservatory, moments before filled with the soft light of a perfect wedding day, now felt like a tomb. Andrew’s face had gone a sickly shade of grey, his eyes darting frantically between me and the silent documents on the table. Evelyn, recovering from her initial shock, tried to regain control.
“Rossi?” she hissed, her voice trembling with a mixture of fear and rage. “What are you talking about? He has no claim here! We have attorneys, injunctions…”
She began to wave her hand dismissively, trying to dismiss the gravity of the situation, but the tremor in her voice betrayed her. She clearly didn’t understand the kind of man Victor Rossi was, or the underworld rules he played by. Legal papers were just that – paper – to him.
“You think a civil court order means anything to him?” I asked, my voice flat. “Andrew borrowed money, significant money, from a man who doesn’t use judges or lawyers to collect. Just his own methods.”
Andrew stumbled back a step, nearly knocking over a vase of white roses. “$1.8 million,” he choked out, the figure betraying his terror. “$1.8 million in gambling debts. I… I told them I had the family estate as collateral!”
Evelyn’s head whipped around to face her son, her own fear momentarily forgotten in a surge of pure, venomous shock. “$1.8 million?! Andrew, what have you done?”
Before Andrew could stammer a reply, before Evelyn could launch into a fresh tirade, the heavy oak door to the conservatory opened again.
Claire Dupont walked in.
She was breathtaking in her wedding gown, a vision of pristine white lace and silk. Her hair was swept up elegantly, and she held a delicate glass of water in one hand. But it wasn’t her beauty that struck me. It was her composure. Her face was serene, not a trace of the “distress” I’d heard in her voice recording, not a flicker of the terror Andrew and Evelyn were now radiating.
She didn’t look at me, or at Evelyn, or even at Andrew. Her gaze swept over the room, taking in the documents on the table, the shattered expressions, the palpable tension, as if observing a fascinating experiment. She took a slow, deliberate sip of her water, her eyes betraying absolutely nothing.
The air in the room crackled with unspoken questions, unaddressed threats. Claire’s presence, so calm, so deliberate, changed the entire dynamic. She wasn’t a victim, that much was clear. But what exactly was she? And what game was she truly playing? The silence stretched, thick and suffocating, until Andrew finally found his voice.
“Claire,” he rasped, “you need to explain this to them.” His voice was not demanding; it was pleading.
She simply raised an eyebrow, took another sip of water, and waited.
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