CHAPTER 46: THE MAFIA PRINCE AND HIS BABY

(Evelina’s POV—Police Station, Continuing)

The silence that followed was exquisite.

A silence made of fear, broken pride, and the sound of careers dying.

The chief’s lips parted, but no sound came out. His badge gleamed under the harsh fluorescent lights—a pathetic shield against the man who could end him with a snap of his fingers.

I watched him tremble.

And I...?

I simply blinked.

Because honestly—Theo offering a death menu was not on my bingo card for today.

Some officers were visibly shaking. One actually stepped backward until he hit a desk and nearly toppled over it. Another began silently praying.

Wonderful.

Exactly the kind of chaos I adore.

Theo kept his arm loosely draped over my shoulders, a gesture I had not approved, requested, nor encouraged—AND YET apparently we were doing this now.

The chief swallowed—loudly—and attempted something like a response. "M-Mr. Vinter... please... there must be some misunderstanding—"

Theo’s smile did not reach his eyes.

"Misunderstanding?" he echoed softly. "Ah. I see."

He stepped closer. The Chief flinched as Theo’s shadow swallowed him whole.

"You’re under the impression I came here to negotiate," Theo murmured, voice dripping ice, "when my baby was dragged through your station like a common criminal... humiliated on national television... accused publicly without evidence..."

He leaned down, face inches from the chief’s.

"...and you want me to believe I am mis-understanding?"

A tremor shook through the chief’s body.

My gaze drifted to Officers Hale and Rhea—who stood rigid, fists clenched, shaking. They couldn’t even look me in the eye.

How delightful.

Theo straightened and flicked an imaginary speck off his sleeve.

"But do not worry, Chief," he said lightly, "your punishment will be decided by my babe. Right, darling?"

He turned to me.

I smiled—slow, wicked, elegant. "Why not?"

Gasps rippled through the room.

Theo stepped behind me, hands settling onto my shoulders like a dark crown.

"So," he murmured beside my ear, low enough only I could hear, "how shall we play with them? I will do whatever my babe says."

Silence crushed the station. Dozens of officers waited, breathless, terrified, as if I were about to declare their fate.

I exhaled, calm.

"Legally," I said.

Theo smirked—dark, predatory. "Right... Occasionally, legal executions can be fun too."

That’s right, legally, killing can be easy for these people...but torturing them legally will make them understand...what they dealt with.

Then he lifted his chin slightly.

"Attorney Ravel."

A figure stepped forward.

Attorney Ravel. The Vinter family’s legal demon. He moved with elegant precision, every step controlled. The kind of man whose presence alone argues cases before he even speaks.

The Chief actually took a step back.

Ravel opened a sleek leather folder with a crisp snap.

"Chief Harland," he began, voice silk wrapped around a scalpel. "I am Attorney Ravel, representing Miss Evelina Hartgrave."

The chief forced a trembling smile. "Y-Yes, hello, but an attorney should notify the station before he—"

"Yes," Ravel interrupted calmly, "but you also weren’t informed of many things today."

The chief paled.

Ravel adjusted his glasses and continued.

"Let us begin." He tapped the folder once, and the sound echoed like a gavel.

"First—Miss Hartgrave was arrested based on fabricated evidence, without warrant, without an investigation, and without contacting her legal representation. A violation of Articles 14, 22, and 47 of the Criminal Code."

"That’s not—" the Chief sputtered.

Ravel raised one finger.

He didn’t speak. He didn’t glare. He simply lifted a finger.

The entire station fell silent.

"I am speaking," he said softly.

The Chief shut his mouth with an audible click. Theo chuckled under his breath—dark amusement swirling behind his eyes.

Ravel continued:

"Second—you subjected Miss Hartgrave to interrogation without notifying the Hartgrave legal team. You denied counsel, you denied due process, and you attempted coercion. All of which," he stepped closer, his voice lowering with lethal precision, "will be documented and forwarded to Internal Affairs within the hour."

A whisper of pure terror rolled through the officers.

But Ravel wasn’t finished.

"Oh, and now..." he said, "let us discuss the most damning failure in your... performative justice."

He pulled a glossy photograph from his folder and placed it into the chief’s trembling hands.

Kael Valtore.

Not dying.

Not bleeding.

Not injured.

But standing. Drinking wine.Smirking.

Caught in 4K.

Ravel’s voice turned razor-sharp.

"You arrested Miss Hartgrave on the grounds of attempted murder."

He gestured at the photo.

"Yet the alleged victim is perfectly healthy, not unconscious, not stabbed, and—curiously—never provided a sworn statement."

Gasps filled the air.

The chief’s face drained of color. Ravel stepped in closer, his shadow merging with Theo’s behind me.

"Tell me, Chief Harland," Ravel said softly, dangerously, "how does one attempt to murder a man who—"

He tapped the photo, each tap a dagger.

"—was never harmed?"

He leaned forward.

"And why," he continued, voice sinking into a deadly hush, "did your department act without a single piece of verified evidence? Without a report? Without a medical statement? Without anything except the word of a man who is now proven to be lying?"

The silence that followed was deafening.

Not a breath.

Not a whisper.

Not a heartbeat dared to move.

The Chief looked like he might faint.

Theo smiled.

I crossed my arms.

And the station realized—the real criminals weren’t Evelina Hartgrave. The criminals were the ones who dared to touch her.

Theo hummed thoughtfully beside me, his arm still wrapped around my shoulder—possessive, dangerous, and far too comfortable for my sanity.

"Now..." he drawled, eyes never leaving the trembling Chief, "what do we have to do, Ravel?"

His tone was casual.

Too casual.

Like he was asking what appetizer they should order before dinner. Ravel didn’t even blink. He stepped forward, flipping another document open with that precise, surgical crispness only a man like him could possess.

"Quite simple, Mr. Vinter," he said. "We start by dismantling them—legally."

The chief’s breath hitched.

Ravel lifted a sheet of paper and held it in front of Harland’s face like a mirror of doom.

"This," Ravel said, "is a formal notice of internal investigation for obstruction of justice, evidence tampering, illegal detainment, coercion, and misuse of authority. Signed by three members of the Ethics Committee."

Rhea gasped.Hale swayed slightly, looking as if his knees were debating surrender.

Ravel continued, voice smooth as poison silk.

"In the next hour, every officer involved in Miss Hartgrave’s detainment will be suspended pending investigation. Their careers, reputations, income, and standing will be placed under immediate review."

Harland opened his mouth—Theo glared at him just slightly. Just enough for the Chief to shut up.

Ravel spoke again, sharper now:

"Additionally, Miss Hartgrave reserves the right to file civil charges for emotional distress, public defamation, unlawful arrest, and endangerment of life."

The chief collapsed into his chair.

Ravel finished with a soft, deadly smile. "Of course, the charges could be... reduced. If you cooperate."

A silence fell.

Loaded.

Terrifying.

Every officer stared at him—with the desperation of drowning men staring at the only lifeboat left. Ravel turned to me.

"Miss Hartgrave," he said politely, "what outcome would you prefer?"

Theo leaned in slightly, voice low enough only I could hear.

"Choose anything, baby," he murmured, amused. "Legal ruin, financial ruin... Or I can drag him outside if you want something louder."

I inhaled calmly.

No need for chaos.

Not yet.

I let a smirk curl across my lips.

"Ruining them is enough," I said softly. "Let them understand the consequences of touching the wrong person."

My gaze slid to Hale and Rhea, who stood frozen—pale, trembling, and unable to meet my eyes.

I watched them with calm, sharp delight.

"I will definitely enjoy," I said sweetly, "seeing what happens when a dog chooses the wrong owner."

Hale flinched.

Rhea’s jaw trembled.

Theo chuckled—a low, dark sound that made every officer stiffen. He turned his head slightly toward them, voice dripping amusement and warning in equal measure.

"Whatever my babe wants..." he said, squeezing my shoulder, "she gets."

Their fear thickened the air.

Theo looked at Attorney Ravel. "Ravel. Do everything you need. My baby wants ruin—give her ruin. I’ll listen to you this time."

Ravel’s lips curved into the smallest, coldest smile.

"Thank you, sir," he replied. "I will handle it with... precision."

Theo’s arm lingered around my waist as we walked toward the exit—too close, too warm, too intentional. My heels clicked sharply against the floor, echoing like small executions across the station.

Every officer stepped aside.

Every gaze dropped.

And as I passed Hale and Rhea, I didn’t slow. I didn’t speak. I simply looked at them. A single look heavy enough to crush.

If looks could kill, they would’ve been corpses on the tiles. They stiffened, throats bobbing, trying—and failing—not to crumble under the weight of it.

I smirked wider.

Theo caught that smirk and leaned down just enough for his breath to brush my ear. "You’re terrifying, baby."

I turned my head toward him, shooting laser beams at him.

"You," I said slowly, "and I are going to have a very big talk."

He didn’t flinch.

He didn’t even pretend to.

Instead—His arm tightened around my waist, pulling me flush against him—closer than necessary, closer than appropriate, closer than I should have allowed.

Theo tilted his head, eyes gleaming with unrepentant arrogance.

His voice dipped in velvet danger. "I’m all ears... ready to listen to every beautiful little scolding you have for me, babe."

Heat shot up my spine—infuriating, unwelcome, sharp.

I glared at him harder.

Theo only smirked wider.

He lowered his voice, tone dark and intimate.

"Those beautiful angry eyes of you throwing lasers at me... it’s addictive."

My pulse stuttered—annoyingly. I pushed lightly against his chest—an unspoken warning.

He caught my hand.

Held it.

Not forcefully.

Not gently.

But possessively.