Chapter 2
The heavy silk curtains framing the tall windows seemed to absorb the suffocating tension radiating from Bobby as Anita stepped closer to the head table. Her footsteps were virtually silent on the thick Persian rug, her slender, graceful proportions moving with a practiced, mechanical efficiency.
"Make sure the bread baskets are distributed evenly, Anita," the head butler murmured as she passed him, oblivious to the dangerous undercurrent sweeping through the room.
"I will take care of it immediately," Anita whispered, her American accent trembling slightly beneath her breath.
She reached the head table, stopping directly beside Bobby. The little boy looked up at her, his eyes wide with a quiet, desperate plea. Without a word, Anita leaned forward to set a fresh silver bread basket onto the polished walnut table.
As she did, Bobby’s small hands moved from his lap. He lifted the heavy, cloth-wrapped bundle and placed it directly beside Anita’s resting hand on the table. The boy looked directly at the housemaid, his fingers lingering nervously on the edge of the fabric. His breathing was shallow and frantic.
Maxwell, whose cold, observant eyes missed absolutely nothing in his domain, instantly noticed the bizarre interaction. He watched the way his son trembled, and he saw the heavy, unnatural shape hidden beneath the linen cloth.
The mafia boss did not move frantically. He turned his head slowly. He looked past his trembling son and locked his gaze directly into Anita’s expressive, horrified eyes.
"Anita. What did Bobby bring?"
Maxwell’s voice was deep, quiet, and incredibly deliberate. He spoke with a measured, chilling pause after her name. The sheer, commanding authority in his tone sliced through the ambient chatter of the room like a straight razor.
The effect was instantaneous and absolute. Every single guest at the polished walnut tables stopped eating and speaking. Forks hovered motionless over fine porcelain. Crystal wine glasses were lowered slowly. Dozens of fair, rosy-cheeked faces turned toward the head of the room, watching the mafia boss direct his terrifying, unbroken focus onto the housemaid and his son.
Lucille, standing beside Maxwell's left shoulder, stiffened. The golden light caught the sudden pallor of her fair skin as she stared at the bundle. She immediately leaned forward, meeting Maxwell’s cold gaze, forcing her lips into a faint, reassuring smile that did not quite reach her eyes.
"Just a toy, darling," Lucille stated, her voice dripping with condescending reassurance.
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Her eyes frantically searched Maxwell’s angular expression for a sign of agreement, silently urging him to play along and not cause a scene in front of their powerful guests. She needed him to turn away from the table.
Anita held Maxwell’s intense, unyielding gaze. Her heart hammered against her ribs like a trapped bird. She knew the extreme danger of crossing Lucille Shaw, but looking into Maxwell's perceptive eyes, Anita knew that protecting a murderer was a sin she could not abide. With trembling fingers, Anita reached out and slowly unfolded the edges of the cloth.
