Chapter 3
The sound of the shattering plate cut through the polite murmurs of the garden party like a gunshot. For a fraction of a second, there was total silence on the stone terrace. Then, a sickening sound filled the air.
Several of the adult relatives standing nearby—uncles and cousins dressed in their immaculate formal wear—began to laugh. It wasn't a gentle chuckle; it was a cruel, mocking laughter that resonated with the toxic, ruthless culture of the Montaro family. They looked down at the three-year-old boy covered in purple fruit stains and found it genuinely amusing.
Emmett’s lower lip began to tremble violently. He dropped to his knees on the hard stone, completely ignoring the dark juices seeping into the knees of his expensive trousers. With frantic, shaking hands, the little boy desperately tried to gather the ruined, mushy pieces of his blackberry cobbler, trying to put the shattered ceramic back together.
"It's ruined," Emmett whimpered, tears rapidly welling in his bright eyes. "I just wanted to share."
"Leave it on the ground where it belongs, boy," one of the laughing cousins called out, swirling a glass of scotch. "The staff will hose it off later."
Several yards away, Rafael had been deep in conversation with his two capos. The sharp crack of the ceramic plate breaking had instantly grabbed his attention. He turned his head slowly, his cold, intimidating eyes scanning the crowd until they landed on the source of the disturbance.
He saw his aunt Lucille looking down with disgust. He saw the relatives laughing. And then, he saw his three-year-old son kneeling in the dirt, desperately trying to scrape up a destroyed dessert with his bare hands while tears streamed down his rosy cheeks.
The deeply masculine, unyielding aura around Rafael instantly shifted from a state of passive command to active, terrifying lethality. He did not say a word to his capos. He simply stopped speaking mid-sentence.
"Boss?" Vincent asked, noticing the sudden, absolute deadness in Rafael’s eyes. "Is there a problem?"
Rafael did not answer. He stepped away from the men, his polished leather shoes striking the stone terrace with a heavy, deliberate rhythm. The bright, cinematic sunlight illuminated his devastatingly handsome face, but there was no warmth in his expression. The loose strands of wavy hair fell across his forehead as he closed the distance, cutting through the crowd of laughing relatives like a ghost.
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"Make way," one of the bodyguards hissed, quickly stepping aside as he saw the look on Rafael's face.
The laughter began to die out as the guests noticed the head of the family approaching. They parted instantly, creating a wide, silent path for him. Rafael moved with a slow, predatory grace, his unbuttoned shirt revealing the tense, corded muscles of his chest. He did not look at Lucille. He did not look at Celina. His entire universe had narrowed down to the small, weeping boy on the ground.
