Chapter 2
Far from the golden warmth of the chandeliers, in the dimly lit, stainless-steel expanse of the mansion’s commercial kitchens, a tragedy of quiet desperation was unfolding. The air here was thick with steam and the frantic shouts of chefs rushing to plate the final courses, entirely oblivious to the heartbreaking scene tucked away near the industrial sinks.
Lila Cole stood frozen, a silver serving tray clutched tightly in her hands. At twenty-seven, the housemaid was exceptionally beautiful, possessing a movie-star quality that effortlessly rivaled any of the wealthy women seated in the dining hall. She had a softly oval face, delicate cheekbones, and expressive brows that were currently drawn together in profound horror. Her fair, rosy skin was pale tonight, and her thick hair was arranged meticulously into a loose braided chignon. She wore a sophisticated black maid dress featuring a cinched waist, a fitted silhouette, and a short A-line skirt. A neatly tied white apron, paired with a crisp white collar and cuffs, completed her polished appearance.
Lila’s expressive eyes were locked onto the frail figure standing hunched over a basin of soapy, scalding water.
Eleanor Ravenshaw, the seventy-three-year-old mother of the most powerful Mafia boss in the city, was scrubbing heavy iron pots. She wore a modest floral dress and a soft knitted cardigan, but her elegant attire was covered by a plain, stained work apron. Her sleeves were pushed up, completely damp with dirty dishwater, and her bare hands were raw and red. Eleanor’s tired eyes were fixed firmly downward, her frail fingers trembling violently as she tried to scrape a pan clean.
"Mrs. Ravenshaw, please, you have to stop this," Lila pleaded, her American accent thick with unshed tears. She quickly set her silver tray down and rushed forward, gently pulling the heavy sponge from the elderly woman's trembling hands. "You should not be in here doing this. You are the mother of this house."
"I have to, Lila," Eleanor whispered, her voice fragile and laced with absolute terror. She reached desperately for the sponge, her wet, soapy fingers slipping against Lila's wrist. "Please, give it back. I haven't finished the quota she gave me."
"Quota?" Lila gasped, her heart plummeting into her stomach. She grabbed a clean linen towel and began to frantically dry Eleanor's freezing, damp arms. "Who gave you a quota?"
"Colette," Eleanor choked out, a single tear spilling over her lined, rosy cheek. "She told me I am a burden. She said Bastian is too busy running an empire to be bothered by a useless old woman. She said... she said if I want to be allowed into the dining room to see my son, I have to earn my keep."
A wave of pure, unadulterated fury washed over Lila. Colette Voss, the beautiful woman dripping in diamonds in the next room, had been secretly terrorizing a defenseless elderly woman, weaponizing a mother's desperate love for her son to inflict agonizing humiliation.
"She has no right," Lila said, her voice shaking with rage. "Mr. Ravenshaw would burn this house to the ground if he knew she was treating you like this."
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"You can't tell him!" Eleanor cried, her tired eyes widening in sheer panic as she gripped Lila's black sleeve. "She said if I complain, she will send me away to a facility in another state. I will never see Bastian again. Please, Lila, just let me finish. I just want to see his face."
"You are going to see him," Lila promised fiercely, wrapping her own arm around the trembling matriarch's shoulders. "But you are not washing another dish. Come with me right now."
