Chapter 3
The clatter of crystal glasses and the low hum of affluent conversations provided a rhythmic backdrop to the Christmas Eve festivities. Tessa stood agonizingly still behind the velvet sofa, her eyes darting nervously around the salon. She watched Maribel glide effortlessly through the crowd, her burgundy satin gown shimmering. Maribel was a predator in a room full of wolves, completely unbothered by the fact that she was actively murdering the mother of the man she intended to marry.
"Are you feeling alright, Mother?" Dorian’s deep voice suddenly resonated nearby.
Tessa’s breath hitched. She looked up to see Dorian approaching the velvet sofa. His dark, observant eyes scanned his mother's pale face, a flicker of genuine concern breaking through his stoic mafia persona.
"I am just a little tired, Dorian," Elinor replied, patting his tattooed hand as he leaned over the back of the sofa. "The noise is a bit much for an old woman."
"I can have Vincent clear the room," Dorian offered immediately, his tone leaving no doubt that he would empty the mansion in a heartbeat if she requested it.
"No, no," Elinor insisted gently. "It is a beautiful party. Let the guests enjoy the holiday."
Dorian’s gaze shifted upward, landing directly on Tessa. He registered her disheveled hair, the crooked headband, and the deep creases in her uniform. His brow furrowed slightly, the angular lines of his face tightening. He was a man who demanded absolute perfection from his staff, but the vulnerability in Tessa's expressive eyes gave him pause.
"Is my mother being properly attended to, Tessa?" Dorian asked, his voice a low, measured rumble.
"Yes, Mr. Bancroft," Tessa answered, her American accent wavering. "I am staying right beside her."
"See that you do," Dorian instructed. "If she requires anything, you come to me directly."
"Of course, sir," Tessa whispered, her heart aching. She wanted to scream the truth, to beg him to search the Christmas tree, but she knew Maribel's armed men were watching her every move from the perimeter of the room.
Before Dorian could question her rumpled appearance further, a small, cheerful figure bounded past the sofa.
Six-year-old Caleb Bancroft, dressed impeccably in a thick cream Christmas sweater, was navigating the crowded room with bright, innocent enthusiasm. The motherless boy possessed his father's dark hair and observant eyes, but his spirit remained untouched by the syndicate's darkness.
"Daddy!" Caleb announced happily, running up to Dorian and hugging his leg.
"Slow down, Caleb," Dorian said, his cold demeanor softening instantly as he placed a large, tattooed hand on his son's head. "You are going to knock over a table."
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"I was looking at the tree," Caleb explained, pointing toward the towering evergreen glowing with fairy lights. "Can I fix the ribbons? One is messy."
"You may," Dorian permitted. "But do not break any ornaments."
