Chapter 1
The ballroom of the Valehurst estate was an expanse of Gilded Age architecture, boasting rich old wooden flooring, cascading floral displays, and towering champagne towers that caught the bright, cinematic lighting. Soft ambient light illuminated the room flawlessly without a hint of a yellow tint, highlighting the wealth of the sixty elite gala guests mingling among the tables. It was an event meant to project power and stability, two things desperately needed by the syndicate following the sudden disappearance of the boss’s fiancée on their wedding day just weeks prior.
Emrys Valehurst, the thirty-one-year-old boss of the family, possessed a striking, masculine presence. He was undeniably handsome, his dark hair swept back effortlessly above a sharp jawline dusted with short, neat stubble. Refined tattoos crawled across his hands and peaked above the collar of his tailored dark suit, disappearing near a small, artistic mark on his neck. His heavy family signet ring glinted under the lights, marking him as the apex predator in a room full of dangerous men.
Yet, instead of holding court at the head table, Emrys was crouched near a massive floral display at the edge of the ballroom. His dark, intense eyes had caught a flash of white caught beneath a loose floor panel.
Standing nearby was Dashiell Valehurst, Emrys’s forty-three-year-old cousin and the estate administrator. Dashiell wore an expensive formal suit that cost more than most cars, paired with a luxury wristwatch and perfectly polished shoes. He was flanked by two massive bodyguards—one Black American, one white American—both wearing dark suits and discrete earpieces.
Kneeling on the hard wood, Emrys reached down with his tattooed left hand and gripped the fabric caught in the crack. He pulled. It was delicate white lace. A piece of a wedding veil.
Before Emrys could process the discovery, Dashiell moved with sudden, brutal violence. Dashiell brought the heavy heel of his polished shoe down forcefully onto Emrys’s right hand, pinning the boss’s hand viciously against the old wooden floorboards.
Emrys jerked violently, a sharp, ragged exhale of pain escaping his lips. The sudden movement drew the immediate attention of the nearby gala guests, their conversations dying out as they turned to stare.
Dashiell leaned over, his American accent dripping with mocking condescension. “She ran away. Stop embarrassing this family.”
From the periphery of the room, Coralie Fenwick moved instantly. At twenty-five, she was a housemaid of delicate, breathtaking beauty, her expressive eyes wide with sudden terror. Her hair was neatly pinned beneath a white lace maid headband, and the pristine white apron of her black maid dress swished as she broke all protocol and dropped to her knees beside the mafia boss.
Her frightened eyes darted from his trapped hand up to his angular face. She didn't dare try to yank his hand out from under the heavy shoe, knowing it would tear the skin. Instead, she gently placed her hands around his wrist to support him, her touch incredibly gentle and attentive.
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“Sir… I’m here,” Coralie whispered softly, her voice trembling but filled with fierce devotion. “Look at me.”
Emrys forced his gaze away from his cousin’s shoe, meeting her deeply worried eyes, finding a sudden anchor in her quiet strength.
