Chapter 3 - The Translator
Veronica turned her furious, demanding gaze toward Silas, fully expecting the heavily tattooed mafia boss to order his enforcers to drag the young waiter down to the basement.
But Silas didn't move a muscle.
The apex predator of the city’s underworld remained perfectly seated. His face was a mask of cinematic, emotionless realism. He took a slow, deliberate sip from his crystal water glass, the heavy silence amplifying the terrifying authority radiating from his broad shoulders.
He didn't look at his screaming fiancée. He looked calmly and intently directly at Elena, the terrified waitress.
"What did you ask him?" Silas asked. His voice wasn't loud, but it was incredibly firm, cutting through the tension of the ballroom like a freshly sharpened scalpel.
Elena swallowed hard, her natural breathing catching in her throat as the most dangerous man in Chicago addressed her directly.
"I... I asked him where the ring is, sir," Elena replied, her voice nervous and quiet.
"Don't talk to the staff, Silas, they cover for each other!" Veronica snapped, her voice pitching higher with sudden, inexplicable panic. She reached out, trying to place her red-gloved hand over his tattooed one to regain control of the narrative. "Just let your men handle him!"
Silas slowly turned his head. He shot Veronica a look so intensely cold, so completely devoid of human warmth, that she immediately snatched her hand back as if she had been burned by a hot iron.
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He looked back at the two terrified staff members.
👉 Silas was ready to hear the defense, and the deaf waiter was about to sign a truth that would shatter the entire gala.
