Chapter 3
The distance between the dining tables and the marble fireplace felt impossibly vast as Malcolm closed the gap. The cascading crystal chandeliers continued to cast their soft, elegant warmth, but the atmosphere around the mantel had turned to ice. Iris remained frozen, her hand still holding the upper edge of the portrait, while Lucy’s small hand stubbornly anchored the bottom.
Malcolm stopped just two feet away. He did not look at the portrait. He met Iris’s eyes.
“Iris. Why remove her photograph?”
His voice was quiet, incredibly deep, with a terrifyingly controlled pause placed deliberately after her name.
The acoustic shift in the room was instantaneous. Every single guest at the long walnut tables stopped eating and speaking. The clinking of silver cutlery against gold-rimmed porcelain ceased entirely. Dozens of powerful men and women turned their heads, their attention magnetically pulled toward the Mafia boss standing by the fire. The silence was absolute, suffocating, and heavy with impending consequence.
Iris swallowed hard. Her heart hammered a frantic rhythm against her ribs, the sound roaring in her ears. She kept the silver frame perfectly steady against the marble so that Lucy did not have to release her desperate grip.
Looking directly at Malcolm, Iris met the cold, perceptive eyes of the most dangerous man on the eastern seaboard. Her inner brows lifted helplessly, a profound expression of vulnerability and empathy for the child standing beside her.
“Camille said it makes guests uncomfortable,” Iris answered softly.
Her voice trembled slightly, betraying her sheer terror. Moisture gathered rapidly along her lower eyelids, shining in the golden candlelight. After the admission, her full natural lips pressed tightly together. She looked undeniably frightened, fully aware that speaking against the future bride of the syndicate boss could cost her not just her place in the household, but her very life.
Behind Malcolm, Camille moved quickly. The sculpted satin of her evening gown shimmered as she stepped into the intimate circle by the fireplace. She needed to control the narrative before it shattered her carefully curated image in front of the entire crime family.
"Is this the sort of insubordination you permit in your home, Malcolm?" Camille asked, her American accent sharp and defensive, momentarily forgetting the cardinal rule of addressing him.
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Malcolm did not turn his head to look at her. His gaze remained locked on the beautiful, tearful housemaid.
"Do you believe a servant invents an order that risks her livelihood?" Malcolm inquired, his low voice vibrating with a lethal calmness.
