Chapter 2
The heavy silk curtains framing the ballroom windows seemed to absorb the suffocating tension radiating from Daphne as she approached the head table. Her footsteps were virtually silent on the thick Persian rug, her slender, graceful proportions moving with a practiced, mechanical efficiency. She carried the heavy silver tray bearing Warren’s dinner, her knuckles turning bone-white as she gripped the polished metal. Every instinct in her body screamed at her to run, to drop the tray and flee the hotel, but the memory of Simone’s cold, venomous threat kept her anchored to the floor.
"Ensure the boss's glass is refilled before you serve the main course, Daphne," the head butler murmured as she passed him, oblivious to the lethal drama unfolding in the shadows of the gala.
"I will take care of it," Daphne whispered, her American accent trembling slightly beneath her breath.
Daphne reached the head table. She stepped deliberately beside Warren, acutely aware of the dangerous man's proximity. The scent of his expensive cologne—a dark blend of cedar and spice—mingled with the aroma of the roasted meats and white roses. She carefully set the silver tray onto a nearby serving stand and retrieved Warren's gold-rimmed plate.
She placed the dinner flawlessly before Warren. The presentation was immaculate. But the service was not over.
Daphne’s wrist began to tremble. Her heart pounded a frantic, erratic rhythm against her ribs. She picked up a small silver spoon from the table setting. Her inner brows drew together in a tight line of anxiety as she dipped the spoon into the rich sauce pooling at the edge of Warren's plate.
She lifted the small spoonful toward her own lips.
Her hand shook so violently that a drop of the sauce nearly spilled onto her pristine white apron. Daphne briefly, desperately checked Simone’s expression across the table. The fiancée’s eyes were locked onto her, hard and expectant, offering absolutely no reprieve. Daphne closed her eyes and prepared to take the bite, praying that the food was not laced with whatever poison the socialite was anticipating.
Warren, whose cold, perceptive eyes missed absolutely nothing in his domain, instantly noticed the bizarre and highly irregular movement. He watched the housemaid’s hand shake, noted the sheer terror draining the rosy color from her delicate cheekbones, and caught the panicked glance she threw toward his fiancée.
The mafia boss did not move frantically. He turned his head slowly. He looked past his son and locked his gaze directly into Daphne’s wide, frightened eyes.
"Daphne. Why touch my plate?"
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Warren’s voice was deep, quiet, and incredibly deliberate. He spoke exclusively in questions, a chilling linguistic habit that demanded absolute truth. He allowed a measured, agonizing pause after her name. The sheer, commanding authority in his tone sliced through the ambient chatter of the ballroom like a straight razor.
The effect was instantaneous and absolute. Every single guest at the polished walnut tables stopped eating and speaking. Forks hovered motionless over fine porcelain. Crystal wine glasses were lowered slowly to the tables. The polite, affluent conversation died in their throats. Dozens of fair, rosy-cheeked faces turned toward the head of the room, watching the mafia boss direct his terrifying, unbroken focus onto the housemaid. The entire gala froze, suspended in a moment of terrifying, breathless anticipation.
