Chapter 2 - The Cold Cuffs
Serafina’s shriek echoed through the vaulted ceiling of Delphine’s immaculate dining room, shrill enough to make the crystal chandelier vibrate.
"You can't arrest me!" she screamed, backing away from Officer Thorne until her spine hit the mahogany hutch. Her heel caught on a silver gravy boat that had rolled across the hardwood during the scuffle, sending another spray of tepid broth against the skirting board. "I am the victim here! Look at my arm! Look at what that brute did to me!"
Officer Thorne didn’t even blink. He had the dead-eyed, impassive stare of a veteran cop who had seen every conceivable permutation of suburban holiday madness. Without raising his voice, he reached for the tactical cuffs hanging from his utility belt.
"Ma'am, turn around and place your hands behind your back. Do not make this worse than it already is."
"Evander, tell them!" Delphine lunged forward, her diamond bracelets clattering frantically. She grabbed my husband’s forearm, her nails digging directly into his sleeve. "Tell them it was an accident! Tell them your sister tripped!"
Evander looked down at his mother’s hand. For five years, I had watched him flinch under that touch—the guilt-laden grip of a matriarch who treated every boundary as an act of high treason. But tonight, with my soaked shirt sticking to my chest and the red outline of Serafina’s palm blooming across his cheekbone, something in him had snapped cleanly in half.
He peeled Delphine’s fingers off his arm, one by one.
"It wasn't an accident, Mom," Evander said, his voice terrifyingly quiet. "She aimed for Maya’s face. If Maya hadn't moved her head, we'd be calling an ambulance for third-degree facial burns right now."
"She’s your sister!" Delphine wailed.
"And Maya is my wife."
Thorne stepped past the table. Serafina tried to bolt toward the kitchen, but Thorne’s partner, a broad-shouldered younger officer named Ramirez, cut off the doorway with textbook positioning. Within three seconds, Thorne had Serafina’s right arm locked behind her shoulder blades. The metallic *click-clack* of the handcuffs ratcheting shut sounded like a gunshot in the silent room.
"You're making a huge mistake!" Serafina spat, thrashing against Thorne's grip. Her designer blowout was completely undone, half plastered to her forehead with sweat and grease. "My fiancé is Richard Sterling! His family donates to the police benevolent fund! You will lose your badges for this!"
"Watch your head, ma'am," Thorne said mildly, guiding her toward the front foyer.
Delphine turned on me, her eyes dilated with pure, unadulterated venom. "You happy now, you little stray? You destroyed our family Thanksgiving. You've poisoned my son against his own blood!"
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I stood straight, my breathing slow and rhythmic. In the cage, the moment your opponent loses emotional control is the moment you've already won. You don't match their hysteria; you let them exhaust themselves against the cage mesh.
"I didn't bring boiling liquid to a fistfight, Delphine," I said, wiping a stray drop of soup from my collarbone with a napkin. "Your daughter did. And she had terrible form."
