Chapter 1
The afternoon sun poured over the private estate in clean, blinding sheets of white gold, casting crisp shadows across the emerald lawn. Under the silk pavilion, thirty guests in bespoke tailoring and draped chiffon sipped vintage champagne, their laughter drifting over the polished silver and towering tiers of a four-foot birthday cake. At the head of the stone walkway sat Arthur DeLuca. At eighty-two, the retired founder of the DeLuca organization was wrapped in an ivory wool suit and a silk scarf, his frail hands resting upon the armrests of his motorized wheelchair. His skin was fair and rosy under the autumn warmth, his pale blue eyes watching his family with the quiet detachment of an old lion who had surrendered his territory to his daughter.
Behind him, high heels clicked sharply against the flagstones.
Camille Rourke stepped into the sun, her emerald evening gown shimmering against her fair shoulders. At twenty-seven, her beauty was sharp, calculated, and emboldened by the heavy diamond engagement ring flashing on her finger—a ring given to her by Arthur’s grandson. Beside her walked her brother, Declan Rourke, thirty-four, his hands buried deep in the pockets of an Italian silk suit.
Without a word of warning, Camille’s manicured fingers gripped the rubber handles of Arthur’s wheelchair.
She shoved downward with all her weight, twisting the frame violently to the left.
The heavy titanium chair tipped sideways. Arthur let out a choked, breathless gasp as gravity took him. The eighty-two-year-old patriarch crashed hard onto the trimmed grass, his silk scarf tangling around his neck, his polished leather shoes kicking weakly as his hip took the brunt of the fall.
Before the old man could find purchase on the turf, Declan stepped forward with a lazy, practiced motion and kicked the overturned wheelchair twenty feet down the sloping lawn, sending it rolling out of reach.
A ripple of sudden silence tore through the garden—and then curdled into cruel amusement.
Several cousins near the dessert cart let out muffled snickers. Two young capos raised their smartphones, the lenses catching the bright afternoon glare as they recorded the fallen founder groveling in the clover.
Arthur’s knuckles clawed into the soil, his breathing ragged as he struggled to raise his torso. "Camille..." he rasped, his voice thin as parchment. "What is the meaning of this?"
Camille stood over him, her lips curling into a bright, venomous smirk.
"If he wants the head seat, let him crawl back," Camille said, her voice clear, theatrical, and laced with absolute contempt.
Declan chuckled, turning to the laughing guests. "Look at him. The great Arthur DeLuca, eating grass like a stray dog. Should've stayed in the nursing home, old man."
"You shouldn't have touched him, Camille," murmured an older cousin from the bar, though he didn't lower his drink. "Valeria is still on the grounds."
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"Let her come," Camille scoffed, tossing her blonde hair over her shoulder. "This family belongs to the next generation now. Luca knows it, and everyone with half a brain in this garden knows it too."
At the edge of the terrace, fifty feet away, the glass doors of the manor slid open without a sound. Valeria DeLuca stepped out into the light.
