Chapter 1
The underwater illuminations of the swimming pool cast a brilliant, shifting mosaic of electric blue light against the pristine white walls of the estate. It was a flawless summer evening, the air thick with the scent of expensive perfume and blooming jasmine. The engagement party was in full swing, a sea of wealthy, white American adults draped in formal evening attire, their fair, rosy skin glowing under the warm patio heaters. Laughter and the clinking of crystal champagne flutes echoed across the terrace, but near the deep end of the pool, the festive atmosphere was unraveling into something cruel and sharp.
Anwen Huxley stood near the slick, wet edge of the marble tiling. At twenty-three, she possessed a breathless, classic beauty that rivaled any movie star on the silver screen, her fair skin flushed with a mixture of exertion and rising panic. She wore a perfectly fitted black maid’s dress, a crisp white apron, and flat black shoes. A delicate white lace headband held back her hair, but right now, her posture was entirely defensive. She held an empty brown pay envelope crushed in her trembling hands.
Felice, thirty-four years old and radiating malicious triumph, stepped forward. Her designer evening gown caught the brilliant pool light, the diamonds at her ears and on her engagement ring flashing like warning beacons.
"You really thought you could hide it from me?" Felice demanded, her American accent sharp and unyielding.
"Please, Ms. Felice," Anwen begged, her voice shaking as she backed up another inch. "That money was for his food. It's all I have for the week."
Felice’s lips curled into a delighted, contemptuous smile. She held up a thick stack of crisp banknotes—Anwen’s entire wages—and with a dramatic, sweeping motion of her wrist, she tossed the money directly into the illuminated pool. The green bills hit the bright blue water and immediately began to drift apart, floating uselessly across the surface.
"No!" Anwen cried out, lunging forward a half-step before freezing.
Felice didn't hesitate. She stepped into Anwen’s space and shoved the young maid hard by the shoulders, pushing her precariously close to the precipice of the deep end. Anwen stopped short, her flat shoes skidding on the wet marble, her arms pulled tightly against her chest to maintain her balance. Her heart hammered wildly against her ribs.
Felice pointed an immaculately manicured finger at the floating money. "Can’t swim? Then your son doesn’t eat. Consider it a lesson in understanding your place in this household."
"You have no right," Anwen gasped, her chest heaving as tears of sheer desperation welled in her eyes. "He is just a little boy."
"He is a parasite," Felice corrected, her tone dripping with venom. "Just like his mother. If you want those wages, you better jump in and fetch them like a good dog."
Anwen stared at the water, terrified of the depth, her mind racing with the agonizing reality of her child going hungry. Before she could make a desperate, dangerous decision, a heavy, suffocating silence fell over the immediate area. The guests nearest the cocktail table parted like the Red Sea.
Duncan Wetherby stepped out of the shadows and into the vibrant blue light.
Forty-seven years old, Duncan was the undisputed Mafia boss of the region, possessing a deeply masculine, movie-star handsome face. His thick, slightly wavy hair was naturally slicked back, with a few loose strands falling perfectly over his forehead, creating a dangerously romantic charm. His angular face, high-bridged nose, and sharply defined jawline were framed by extremely short, neatly trimmed stubble. He wore a tailored dark three-piece suit, his polished leather shoes making no sound on the marble. Intricate, artistic tattoos peeked out from his collar, wrapping slightly up his neck in moderate, refined designs.
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He stepped smoothly between Anwen and the water, blocking Felice’s line of sight, and offered his large, heavily tattooed hand to the trembling maid.
"Take my hand," Duncan said. He spoke slowly, with controlled pauses between words, his volume incredibly low. Every syllable was measured, cold, and dangerous.
