After Rebirth, I Became My Ex's Aunt-in-Law-Chapter 213: Do Not Poke a Sleeping Bear

The final, venomous syllable had barely left Diana’s mouth when Damien grabbed the silver fork resting next to his untouched plate of carbonara.

THWACK.

The sound of metal violently biting into solid wood echoed like a gunshot across the hushed dining room of Il Cigno.

Diana flinched, a sharp, involuntary gasp tearing from her throat.

She looked down.

The silver fork was driven deep into the expensive mahogany table, the thick tines vibrating from the force of the impact.

It was planted exactly one millimeter away from the edge of Diana’s hand. It was so close that the outermost prong of the fork had sliced a razor-thin line right through the fleshy side of her palm. A single, bright bead of crimson blood instantly welled up on her skin, accompanied by a sharp, burning sting.

If Damien had aimed even a fraction of an inch to the left, he would have impaled her hand directly to the table.

The entire restaurant went dead silent. The clinking of glasses stopped. The ambient chatter evaporated. Every single elite patron was staring at the corner booth in absolute horror.

Damien slowly leaned forward over the table.

The civilized, bored mask was gone. His golden eyes were swirling with a darkness that promised violence.

"Are you eager for a second bullet in your leg, Diana?" Damien asked.

His voice was a soft, deadly whisper that chilled the marrow in her bones.

Diana’s breath hitched. She stared at her brother, suddenly realizing she had pushed too far. He had never looked at her like this. He had never threatened her before.

And it was all because of Aria.

Diana’s mind spun frantically. How had that sneaky, D-list bitch managed to get her brother wrapped so tightly around her little finger that he was willing to maim his own sister in public for insulting her?

And why was he still so protective of her when he had already found pleasure with a mistress?

It all made no sense.

"I... I’m sorry," Diana stammered, lowering her head in a pathetic show of submission. Her voice shook with the fake apology. "I didn’t mean it, Damien. It’s the wine. And... and my pent-up frustration. You’ve been ignoring me all night. I just wanted you to look at me."

Damien said nothing in response.

He didn’t accept the apology. He stared at her for two more agonizing seconds, then, he pulled his chair back. The wood scraped loudly against the floor.

He walked directly out of the restaurant without a single backward glance.

Diana was left sitting alone in the booth, clutching her bleeding hand.

A moment later, one of Damien’s operatives stepped up to the table. He unlocked the brakes on her wheelchair and began rolling her backward, navigating her through the sea of staring, judgmental, whispering socialites. The second guard remained behind to throw a stack of hundred-dollar bills onto the table to cover the ruined mahogany and the bill.

The humiliation was crushing. Diana kept her head bowed the entire way out the door.

When she was finally loaded into the back of the waiting SUV, Damien was already sitting in the opposite chair.

He was staring out the window, his jaw clenched tight.

Diana didn’t say a word. She knew better than to poke a sleeping bear. She pressed a napkin against the tiny cut on her hand and remained perfectly, silently still.

The SUV glided through the neon-lit streets of Manhattan.

For ten minutes, the only sound in the cabin was the soft hum of the engine.

But then, Diana frowned. She looked out the tinted window, watching the street signs pass by.

They weren’t heading toward Sinclair Tower.

A cold, creeping sense of dread settled into Diana’s stomach.

"Damien?" Diana asked, her voice a hesitant, fearful whisper. "Where are we going?"

Damien didn’t respond. He didn’t even shift his gaze from the glass.

Diana swallowed hard. Her pulse began to quicken.

Why wouldn’t he answer her? Why were they taking a detour?

’He’s going to kill me,’ Diana realized, her breathing turning shallow. ’He’s taking me somewhere quiet to dump my body.’

It wasn’t a ridiculous assumption. It was practically family tradition. Every Sinclair eventually died at the hand of another Sinclair. Diana hadn’t been a part of the bloody succession war that claimed her brothers, but that didn’t mean she was immune to the family curse.

Her mind flashed back to the horrific, hushed rumors surrounding their oldest brother’s death. He hadn’t just died. He had been meticulously butchered in a soundproofed hotel room. His scattered remains had been stuffed into walls, vents, and plumbing fixtures all around the suite. To this day, authorities were still occasionally finding pieces of him.

"Damien, please," Diana started, her voice cracking as the panic took over. "I’m sorry! I swear to God I’m sorry! I’ll never say another word about Aria again!"

Damien slowly closed his eyes, bringing two fingers up to massage his pounding temples.

"Please don’t do this!" Diana shrieked, the tears finally overflowing, streaming down her face in a pathetic, messy display. "I’m your sister! I raised you! You can’t just chop me up! I have a son!"

The SUV took a sharp turn, descending a concrete ramp into the dimly lit, cavernous underground parking lot of a luxury hotel.

The SUV glided into a VIP parking space near the elevators and shifted into park.

The engine cut off.

Damien finally turned his head to look at her.

Diana cowered in the leather seat, weeping hysterically, fully expecting him to pull a bone saw out from under the seat.

"Wait here," Damien said.

That was it. Two words, delivered with a flat, exhausted monotone. He popped his door open and stepped out into the cool, damp air of the parking garage.

"Damien! What are you doing?!" Diana screamed through the glass as the door shut. "Where are you going?! How long are you going to be?!"

Damien ignored the muffled shrieks coming from the backseat.

He turned and walked toward the elevator. He stepped into the lift, pressing the button for the main lobby. As the doors slid shut, the tight knot in his jaw finally began to loosen.

The elevator chimed on the ground floor. Damien stepped out into the bustling, brightly lit hotel lobby.

One of his operatives, dressed in casual plainclothes, was already waiting near the reception desk. The man immediately stepped forward, holding a large, incredibly fancy box tied with an elegant silk ribbon.

It smelled heavenly—a rich, intoxicating wave of truffle oil, garlic, and fresh parmesan.

It was the Tuscan pasta Damien had secretly ordered from Il Cigno for his wife.

Damien took the box, offering the guard a curt nod.

Without breaking stride, he bypassed the front desk and headed straight for the guest elevators, stepping inside and hitting the button for Aria’s floor.

When the doors opened, he navigated the quiet, plush-carpeted corridor, reading the brass numbers on the walls until he found her door.

He stopped outside her suite.

Damien pulled his phone from his pocket. The headache was still throbbing, but the thought of seeing Aria’s smiling face immediately softened the hard lines of his face.

He opened her contact and quickly typed a message.

[Mrs. Sinclair: I’m at your door.]