Chapter 3 - The Silence Before the Storm
The silence in Belladonna’s was absolute. You could have heard a pin drop onto the thick Persian rugs, or the steady, rhythmic tapping of raindrops against the tall Victorian windows.
Vincent Kingston did not run, but his stride across the marble floor was devastatingly fast. The two bodyguards split off, flanking him by three paces, their hands hovering dangerously close to their coat interiors.
Julian Vance looked like a man standing on the trapdoor of a gallows, waiting for the lever to be pulled. His knees trembled so violently that his trousers rustled against each other. He opened his mouth to speak—to offer an apology, an excuse, a groveling retraction—but no sound came out. His vocal cords had utterly betrayed him.
Emily felt a cold sweat break out along the nape of her neck. Kingston. The name echoed in her mind. Vincent Kingston. She had read about him in the financial sections—a notoriously ruthless negotiator who bought companies for breakfast and discarded corrupt executives before lunch. And she had just yelled at his mother, comforted her in sign language, and essentially stood as a shield between her and the restaurant's management.
Vincent stopped two feet away from his mother, his massive frame radiating an intensity that made the air feel thin. He didn't look at Julian. He didn't look at the staring patrons. His eyes were entirely focused on the silver-haired woman, checking her for any sign of distress.
"Mother," Vincent said, his voice a deep, resonant baritone that vibrated through the floorboards. "Are you alright?"
The older woman—Eleanor Kingston—looked up at her son. Her expression softened instantly, a hint of playful mischief dancing in her dark eyes, which she had clearly passed down to him.
Instead of speaking aloud, Eleanor raised her hands. Her fingers moved with calm, deliberate speed, signing directly to Emily, completely ignoring her billionaire son for a moment.
Tell him he’s late.
Emily blinked, her mind scrambling to translate the sign while processing the sheer absurdity of the situation. Before her hands could even form the initial letters, Vincent Kingston answered.
"I can see that," Vincent said flatly, his eyes darting briefly to the wall clock before returning to Emily.
Emily slowly looked up from Eleanor’s hands to Vincent's face.
He understood her.
At least some of it. Vincent hadn't looked at his mother's hands; he had been reading them in real-time, catching the fluid motions with the practiced ease of someone who had grown up in a bilingual household where silence was a native tongue.
Eleanor smiled—a bright, wicked grin that transformed her elegant face into that of a mischievous teenager. Her fingers began to move again, weaving a sentence through the air with lightning speed. It was a longer message, filled with quick, intricate gestures.
Emily watched the signs, and as the translation registered in her brain, her cheeks burned a brilliant, scorching crimson. The heat rushed up her neck, making her ears ring.
She said more, Vincent observed, his sharp eyes narrowing slightly as he watched Emily’s changing expression. A tiny, almost imperceptible twitch of amusement pulled at the corner of his chiseled mouth. "What did she tell you to say about me?"
May you like
Emily wished, with every fiber of her being, that the marble floor would simply open up beneath her heavy work shoes and swallow her whole.
Because what Eleanor Kingston had just signed was: Tell my son that he looks like an over-stuffed penguin in that three-piece suit, and he needs to fire the idiot at the front door before I do it for him.
