The murmurs grew louder again, filled with sympathy, disbelief, and a hint of cruel fascination. In the far corner of the room, two of Don Salvatore's old soldiers stood with their arms folded, watching the scene with the rigid stillness of men who had been ordered not to intervene. Their jaws were tight.
All eyes turned toward me.
Some mocking. Some pitying. Some simply curious.
To them, I was the punchline of a cruel joke. The heiress of the most feared name on the Eastern Seaboard, humiliated at her own table.
They expected me to break. To scream. To cry. To lose control in front of everyone.
But I didn't.
Instead, I reached calmly into my bag and pulled out a folder of my own. Without a word, I tossed it onto the table, the motion deliberate and steady. The sound of it hitting the polished wood carried through the silent room like a gunshot.
"Since you've made your stance clear," I said evenly, my voice calm to the point of being unsettling, "let's settle this once and for all."
A ripple of shock moved through the room.
"Let's cut our ties here."