Chapter 2
The grand stone terrace was lined with massive, extravagant dessert tables, groaning under the weight of professionally crafted pastries, towering cakes, and spun-sugar delicacies. Sitting at the head of the most prominent table was Lucille Montaro. At sixty-eight years old, Rafael’s aunt was the undisputed senior matriarch of the family. She wore a luxurious formal dress of deep crimson, layered with heavy, flawless pearl jewelry and thick diamond rings. Her fair skin was heavily powdered, her posture rigid with aristocratic entitlement.
Beside her sat Celina, Rafael’s thirty-eight-year-old cousin, dressed in an expensive, sweeping garden-party dress. Celina sipped her champagne, her rosy face curled into a perpetual expression of smug satisfaction as she surveyed the guests.
"The turnout is acceptable this year," Lucille remarked, her crisp American accent dripping with condescension. "Though I see the Rossi family declined our invitation. They are becoming entirely too bold."
"Let them be bold, Aunt Lucille," Celina laughed, adjusting a diamond earring. "Rafael will crush them by winter. You know how he is. He doesn't leave loose ends."
"Rafael is effective," Lucille agreed coldly. "But he is distracted. That child of his takes up too much of his attention. A Boss cannot afford to play house."
As if summoned by her words, little Emmett finally reached their table. His small dress shoes halted by Lucille's chair. His tiny arms were aching from holding the ceramic plate so carefully, and his fair face was beaming with pure, innocent pride. The dark purple juice of the blackberry cobbler had spilled slightly over the edges of the plate, staining his small thumbs.
"Auntie Lucille," Emmett chirped brightly, holding the plate forward as far as his little arms could reach. "I made this for you. In the kitchen. It has berries."
Lucille slowly turned her head, her cold eyes dropping to the messy, homemade dessert hovering near the pristine fabric of her expensive gown. Her expression did not soften; it hardened into absolute, visceral disgust.
"What is this mess?" Lucille demanded, her voice sharp and unforgiving.
"It's cobbler," Emmett said, his smile faltering slightly under her harsh glare. "I made it myself."
"Get that filthy thing away from my dress," Lucille sneered.
Before the three-year-old could even register her command, Lucille pulled her leg back. With a sudden, shocking burst of violence, the sixty-eight-year-old matriarch forcefully kicked the bottom of the ceramic plate with her pointed heel.
The plate launched out of Emmett’s small hands. It shattered violently across the hard stone terrace with a deafening crack. Thick, sticky blackberry cobbler exploded outward in a bright purple spray. The hot fruit and dark juices splashed directly over Emmett’s elegant banquet clothes, ruining the crisp fabric.
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Emmett recoiled violently, his small shoulders jerking back in sheer, unadulterated shock. He stared at the ruined mess on the ground, his fair, rosy face draining of all color.
"You expect this family to eat garbage?" Lucille spat, her voice ringing out across the terrace, silencing the nearby conversations. She brushed a non-existent crumb from her lap, looking at the child as if he were a stray animal.
