Chapter 3
The entire banquet hall was paralyzed. Every dinner guest stopped eating and speaking, pivoting their heads in unison to stare at Victor Harrington. The mafia boss moved with a slow, deliberate grace that was utterly terrifying. He rose from his velvet dining chair, his broad shoulders casting a formidable shadow over the carved walnut table. His tailored dark three-piece suit shifted perfectly with his movements.
Beside him sat his six-year-old daughter, Cora Harrington, dressed in a beautiful cream Christmas dress and a burgundy cardigan. The little girl had been quietly observing the adults, her fair, rosy cheeks illuminated by the warm fairy lights of the towering Christmas tree.
Victor stepped smoothly out from behind the table, moving to stand directly beside Cora. He did not look at Juliette. He looked directly at Violet, his deep, intelligent eyes analyzing the sheer, trembling bravery of the maid in the black dress and white ruffled headband.
"Violet," Victor commanded, his voice a low, measured baritone that commanded absolute obedience. "Keep Ruth beside me."
Violet let out a shaky exhale, nodding quickly. She gently placed her hand on Ruth’s worn wool coat, guiding the elderly grandmother to stand safely behind the imposing, broad-shouldered frame of the mafia boss.
Juliette scoffed, a nervous, breathless sound. "Victor, what are you doing? They are lying. You cannot possibly take the word of a servant over your fiancée."
Before Victor could answer, a small, fragile voice broke through the heavy silence.
Cora Harrington looked directly at Juliette, her large eyes filled with a terrifying, innocent comprehension. The six-year-old girl’s small fingers reached out, tightening slightly around the dark, tailored edge of her father’s suit jacket. Cora’s voice remained small, soft, and heartbreakingly puzzled.
"Will you sell me too?" Cora asked.
The question struck the opulent room like a physical blow. The silence was absolute, heavy with the devastating weight of a child’s fear. The ivory candles flickered in their brass candelabras, casting soft shadows across the devastated faces of the guests.
Victor froze. He briefly lowered his head, a softened, profoundly pained gaze falling upon his young daughter. The artistic negative-space tattoos on his hand flexed as he gently placed his palm over Cora’s small fingers, offering her a silent vow of absolute protection. He kept her entirely sheltered beside his massive frame.
Then, Victor slowly turned his head toward Juliette.
The warmth was gone. His angular face was carved from granite. His jaw tightened slightly, the very short stubble catching the bright, cinematic light. Victor held a cold, unwavering stare, looking at the woman in the burgundy velvet gown as if she were a corpse.
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"Victor, darling," Juliette whispered, her polished demeanor finally shattering into raw, unadulterated terror. "She is just a child. She doesn't understand."
Victor did not reply. He simply continued to stare, the silence in the room echoing with a lethal, unspoken promise of absolute ruin.
