Chapter 195
Serena
The room erupted into whispers, shocked murmurs rippling through the assembled family members like wind through tall grass. I caught fragments—disbelief, approval, horror, satisfaction—all blending into a low hum of collective judgment.
Arthur raised one weathered hand, and the noise died instantly.
"This tribunal stands—"
"Dad."
The voice came from my left, rough and strained, cutting through Arthur's words like a blade through silk. I turned, startled, to see an older man—maybe sixty—struggling to his feet in the second row. His face was gaunt, almost skeletal, with deep hollows beneath his cheekbones and a grayish pallor that spoke of serious illness. He braced himself against the chair in front of him, his entire body trembling with the effort of standing.
Then he started coughing—deep, rattling hacks that made his face turn an alarming shade of red. Several people half-rose, concerned, but he waved them off with a shaking hand.
"Dad," he repeated, once he could breathe again. His voice was thin, reedy, nothing like the commanding tones of the other family members. "Are you... are you certain you want to do this?"
I leaned closer to Lance, keeping my voice barely above a whisper. "Who is that?"
Lance's expression had gone carefully blank, but I felt his hand tighten around mine. "Who do you think?" His voice was flat, devoid of inflection. "Felix's dear father. Thomas. Flew in special from Europe just in time for the show."
I studied the man more carefully. Thomas Lawson. Lance's uncle. The father of the man who'd orchestrated my kidnapping, who'd tried to have both Lance and Wesley killed.
"He looks awful," I murmured. "Poor man. Sick as a dog and stuck with a son like that."
Lance made a sound that might have been a laugh if it had contained any humor at all. "Well." His voice dropped even lower, taking on an edge that made my spine straighten. "If you knew that all those Italian mob connections Felix used? The Corsetti family? Thomas is the one who introduced them. Made those calls on his son's behalf."
I blinked, looking at the frail old man with new eyes.
"And that illness?" Lance continued, his tone conversational but laced with something dark and bitter. "Started conveniently right after I forced him out of the company. Removed him from the board. Funny how that works. Ten years of being too sick to work, but somehow healthy enough to run interference for Felix's schemes from his villa in Tuscany."
"Well, well," I said, unable to keep the edge from my own voice now. "Aren't looks deceiving."
I was about to say more when Arthur's voice rang out across the hall.
"Thomas." The old man's tone was weary, tinged with something that might have been regret. "I know he's your only son. But the Lawson family charter doesn't allow for sentiment. The rules apply to everyone, regardless of—"
"Of course, of course!" Thomas interrupted, his voice gaining strength despite another coughing fit. He straightened as much as his bent frame would allow, one hand pressed to his chest. "I would never question the family charter in front of everyone. Never."
He paused, letting that sink in, his rheumy eyes scanning the assembled family members with an almost theatrical timing.
"But I have to ask..." Another cough, this one sounding more calculated than involuntary. "If punishment must be meted out, shouldn't I be the one to bear it? I'm his father. His failures are my failures. I raised him poorly, clearly. Gave him too much freedom, not enough discipline."
His voice cracked on the last word, and I saw several people in the crowd shift uncomfortably.
"If you send him to Greenland," Thomas continued, his voice dropping to something barely above a whisper, "I'll never see my son again. I don't have much time left, Arthur. You know that. The doctors have been very clear. Felix is all I have. My only child. My only legacy."
The effect was immediate.
"Poor Thomas," someone murmured from the back rows.
"It is rather harsh," another voice chimed in, tentative but growing bolder. "I mean, Felix was clearly wrong, but exile? Forever?"
"Arthur's always been too rigid," someone else whispered, not quite quietly enough. "Too caught up in the old ways."