Chapter 5
Merrin didn't cower. She didn't pull away. As Domenica's hand reached for the brace, the petite housemaid surged upward from her crouched position, rising directly between the mafia boss and his usurping aunt.
The sudden movement startled Domenica, causing her to freeze for a fraction of a second. It was all the time Merrin needed.
Merrin planted her flat shoes firmly against the floor, widening her stance to ground herself. Her heart was beating so fiercely she thought it might shatter her ribs, but her mind was entirely clear. She placed both of her small, pale palms flat against the luxurious fabric of Domenica’s upper chest.
With every ounce of strength in her petite frame, Merrin drove forward in one firm, explosive shove.
The impact was shocking. Domenica, wearing high heels and completely unprepared for physical resistance from a servant, let out a sharp gasp as the air was forced from her lungs. She stumbled violently backward, her arms flailing wildly as she lost her balance.
The older woman staggered, her heels skidding across the floor, until she crashed backward into the adjacent padded dining chair.
The chair tipped dangerously onto its back two legs, threatening to spill the matriarch onto the floor in a humiliating heap. The two bodyguards, recovering from their sheer disbelief, lunged forward simultaneously. They caught the back of the heavy wooden chair just before it overturned, slamming it back down onto all four legs with a loud, resounding thud.
The entire dining gallery descended into a breathless, terrifying vacuum of silence.
Fifty guests—ruthless capos, seasoned criminals, and wealthy relatives—stared in absolute, unadulterated shock. A twenty-five-year-old housemaid, weighing barely a hundred and ten pounds, had just physically assaulted the woman attempting to seize control of the syndicate.
No dialogue broke the stillness. The only sound was Domenica’s ragged, furious breathing as she clutched the arms of the chair, her perfectly coiffed hair now slightly disheveled, her diamond jewelry sparkling mockingly in the bright, natural light.
Merrin stood her ground, her chest heaving beneath her black dress. Her white apron was slightly crooked, but she did not step back. She remained an impenetrable shield between Domenica and the man she had sworn to serve. She did not look at the heavily armed bodyguards; she kept her expressive eyes locked dead onto Domenica, daring the older woman to try and touch him again.
Lowen, sitting heavily in his chair, stared at the back of Merrin's white lace headband. The blinding pain in his knee was momentarily eclipsed by the sheer, awe-inspiring magnitude of what she had just done. The girl who quietly cleaned his study and gently poured his coffee had just declared war on his behalf.
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The white American bodyguard reached into his jacket, his hand resting on the grip of a concealed pistol. He looked at Domenica, waiting for the order to execute the maid where she stood.
Domenica slowly stood up, her face a mask of twisting, ugly rage. She smoothed her luxurious gown, her eyes burning holes into Merrin.
