Chapter 4: Sylvester

She’s wearing blue.

A shade that doesn’t belong to this world of shadows and blood. It softens her edges, makes her look like something that drifted in from another life — a life untouched by men like me. Untouched by sin.

And yet she’s mine.

Married to the monster, seated beside me at a lunch table laid out like a trap.

God help anyone who forgets it.

———

The afternoon light cuts through the tall windows, casting long streaks across the table where the core of my inner circle sits. A dozen men. Old blood and new ambition. Their names are whispered in boardrooms and back alleys alike. Some of them are loyal. Others… less so.

And all of them are dangerous.

But I’m the one they fear.

Because I’m the only one who knows what fear tastes like. I swallowed it long ago — chewed it, spit it out, and learned to command it.

Caroline sits to my right, quiet as always, her hands folded in her lap. But her eyes — those eyes — are alive. Curious. Guarded. Beautiful.

She is trying to make sense of this world, and failing.

Because nothing here makes sense.

Not loyalty.

Not rules.

Not love.

Especially not love.

———

Then it happens.

So subtle it could have been missed, if I were any other man.

But I’m not.

Across the table, René Darcourt, my Paris liaison, lets his gaze linger.

Too long.

Too low.

Too bold.

On her.

I watch it.

I mark it.

And something primal unfurls in my gut.

A quiet, patient rage. The kind that waits until the room is too relaxed, too confident, before it sinks its teeth in.

I turn my wine glass slowly, watching the deep red swirl. My hand is steady. My face, unreadable. But inside — a storm.

Caroline doesn’t notice. She’s unaware of the shift in the air, the tightening coil inside me. She speaks softly to the woman beside her — one of the wives, I think. Harmless.

But he noticed.

René.

He looks away now, too late. Tries to play it off, laugh at something irrelevant. But I already know.

He was imagining her.

Touching her with his eyes.

Undressing what belongs to me.

And that is a sin I do not forgive.

———

After lunch, I let the room clear. I make my exit without drama — that would be uncivilized. I kiss Caroline’s temple, murmuring that I have a call to take, and she nods, distracted.

She doesn’t see the beast pacing just beneath my skin.

I wait exactly seven minutes before I send for René.

He comes.

Of course he comes. No one denies an invitation from me. Not if they want to keep breathing.

I lead him to the study.

My sanctuary. My execution chamber.

The door closes behind us, a whisper like the end of a prayer.

He chuckles. Nervous. “Sylvester, I was hoping to speak to you about the Marseille route—”

I don’t speak.

Not with words.

My fist connects with his jaw before he finishes his sentence.

Bone cracks. He stumbles. Blood stains his perfect teeth.

I stalk forward, grip his collar, and slam him into the antique bookshelf.

He’s dazed. Bleeding. Confused.

“Sylvester—! What—”

“You looked at her.”

He freezes.

“I… I don’t understand—”

“You do,” I snarl. “You looked at her like a man looks at something he wants to fuck. You looked at my wife.”

“Sylvester, please—”

“I don’t share, René.”

My voice is ice. Controlled. But my hand tightens around his throat until his face turns red.

“She’s not some street girl you can leer at. She’s not bait. She is mine.”

He chokes. “I—I wasn’t—”

I let go. Let him drop like garbage.

He coughs, gasping, cradling his jaw.

I crouch beside him, quiet now. Calm.

“You think I’m angry because you wanted her?” I say softly. “No. I’m angry because you thought you could survive it.”

He looks up. “Sylvester… it was a glance.”

“So was the one that started a war in Naples.”

His eyes widen.

Yes.

He remembers.

I stand. Adjust my cuffs.

“This is your warning,” I say. “There will not be a second.”

He nods rapidly. Bleeding and humiliated.

I turn and walk out without another word.

———

That night, I find her in the library.

Reading. Always reading. Her mind is sharper than she lets on.

She looks up when I enter. No fear — just that cool, assessing gaze. The one that doesn’t quite know whether to hate me or understand me.

I sit across from her. Watch her like a predator watches the moon.

She closes her book. “You’re bleeding.”

I glance down. A smear of blood on my knuckle. I hadn’t noticed.

I lick it off slowly, deliberately. “Not mine.”

She studies me. “What did he do?”

I smile faintly. “He made the mistake of thinking you were just beautiful.”

She swallows. “I am just beautiful.”

“No, mon amour,” I murmur. “You are the very thing men go to war for.”

She shivers.

Not from fear.

From something worse.

Curiosity.

She doesn’t realize she’s already mine.

Not the way I want her to be.

Not yet.

She walks these halls like a guest, careful with her steps, cautious with her words. She’s obedient, yes. Soft-spoken. Gracious. But there’s still distance in her eyes. Still a refusal to surrender.

That’s what gnaws at me.

Not defiance.

But detachment.

As if she can still dream of escape.

As if she still believes in choice.

She wears my ring. Sleeps in my bed. Feeds my enemies with a smile. But she hasn’t bled for me. She hasn’t burned for me.

And I can’t stand it.

———

The next morning, I watch her from the surveillance room.

Four monitors. Six angles. Her walking through the gardens. The hem of her dress brushing over gravel. Her hair twisted up. Neck exposed. Vulnerable.

I could watch her for hours.

Sometimes, I do.

She bends over a rose bush, careful not to prick her fingers, and I think — if she bled, even the flowers would turn carnivorous.

Someone walks by her. A groundskeeper. Young. Harmless. But he looks. Not long. Not improperly. But he notices her.

That’s enough.

I press the intercom.

“Fire him.”

No explanation. No name.

Just the command.

The guard nods through the screen, already moving. I go back to watching her. The blissful ignorance in her face. The fragile illusion of peace.

She will learn soon enough:

This garden is a cage, not a sanctuary.

And I am the thing that keeps her safe inside it.

———

That night, I have her dress sent to her room.

Not just any dress — the dress. One I had custom-made for her before the wedding. Black silk, low back, thin straps. Meant for possession, not comfort.

With it, a note:

“Wear this for dinner at 9.”

No signature. She’ll know.

She arrives exactly on time.

Obedient, like always. But her eyes are sharp when she walks into the private dining room. She knows something has shifted. She feels it in the air. Good.

The table is set for two. Candles. Crystal. The kind of decadence that tastes like power. The room is silent, except for the fire crackling behind her.

I don’t stand when she enters. I want to see her walk toward me in that dress. To watch the way silk clings to her like my hands would.

She sits. Poised. Regal.

I pour the wine.

“You’re early,” she says.

“You’re beautiful.”

She rolls her eyes — a slow, subtle movement, like she doesn’t want to give me the satisfaction of seeing it. But I see everything.

I raise a brow. “No compliment in return?”

“You already know,” she replies. “Men like you don’t ask for praise. You expect it.”

I lean in. “You’re learning.”

She sips her wine. “Why this dress?”

“Because I wanted to remember what it felt like when I first decided you’d be mine.”

She stiffens. “You didn’t ask.”

“No,” I murmur. “I never ask.”

———

Dinner is quiet after that. A slow, simmering tension wraps around us like smoke.

She barely eats.

I watch her wrists, how delicate they look against the tablecloth. I imagine gold around them. Leather. My hands. I wonder what she’d do if I said the word kneel.

But not yet.

Not tonight.

Tonight is about seduction, not submission.

When the plates are cleared, and the wine is nearly gone, she finally speaks.

“Why do you watch me?”

I tilt my head. “Because I like what’s mine.”

“You mean control.”

“I mean devotion,” I say softly. “Total. Irrevocable. All-consuming.”

She shakes her head, more at herself than at me. “You think this is love.”

I laugh. “No, Caroline. Love is what makes men weak. What I feel for you is worship.”

———

She stands.

Dinner is over. The performance complete. But I can’t let her leave just yet.

I move behind her before she can reach the door. My hands come to her waist, slow, deliberate.

She freezes.

I bend down, mouth near her ear. “He looked at you. The man at lunch.”

Her breath hitches. “And?”

“I wanted to gouge his eyes out.”

She doesn’t answer. Doesn’t move. Her pulse flutters beneath her skin.

“I don’t want men to see you, Caroline,” I whisper. “I want them to fear what happens if they even think of you.”

She turns to face me. Slowly. Eyes defiant. “And what happens when I look at someone else?”

My hand moves to her throat.

Not squeezing. Just there. A threat wrapped in silk.

“You wouldn’t dare.”

She smiles then — a small, cold thing. “No, Sylvester. I wouldn’t. But it’s not because I’m afraid of you.”

I tilt my head. “Then why?”

Her answer stabs deeper than a knife.

“Because it would mean I’ve stopped being angry. And I’m not done being angry with you yet.”

———

I let her go.

Not because I’m finished.

But because I’ve just begun.

She thinks this is anger. Resistance. A final grip on her independence.

But anger is just the first step.

Soon, she’ll mistake it for hunger.

And then… for need.

When she finally crawls into my arms without fear, without command — when she does it because she wants to — that’s when I’ll know:

Caroline isn’t just my wife.

She is my masterpiece.

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