Chapter 2
The bright, cinematic colors of the dining room suddenly felt sickening, a vibrant backdrop to an unimaginable cruelty. The polite clatter of silverware and the murmurs of the oblivious guests at the far end of the table began to fade, slowly replaced by a heavy, impending dread.
Maya Vance stood frozen just a step behind her husband. Her fair, rosy cheeks were completely drained of color, her eyes wide with a mixture of terror and suppressed agony. As Alex’s cold, intimidating gaze locked onto the thick white bandages wrapping her hands, Maya stepped forward.
Her fingers trembled violently as she reached out, gripping the sleeve of Alex’s dark tailored suit with the edge of her bandaged palm. The faint stains on the medical gauze were a dark, ugly testament to the pain she was enduring.
Maya looked over Alex’s shoulder, her eyes darting toward the heavy steam rising from the massive industrial pot in the catering kitchen. She then slowly dragged her terrified gaze back to Evelyn, who was standing at the head of the table with an expression of pure, unadulterated malice.
"Alex," Maya whispered. Her voice was shaking so violently that she could barely form the words. She squeezed his suit jacket, desperate to communicate the full extent of the horror before the situation exploded. "Alex… the burns weren’t from dishwater."
The words struck the room with the force of a detonating bomb.
If the burns on a three-year-old child and a grown woman were not from the hot, soapy water of a kitchen sink, there was only one other source of boiling liquid in that catering kitchen.
Alex’s breathing stopped. The terrifying, cold, measured demeanor of the Mafia Don shattered for a microscopic fraction of a second, revealing the absolute, demonic rage burning beneath his tailored vest. He turned his head slowly, his eyes locking back onto the massive, steaming soup pot resting on the counter.
Evelyn had not just forced them to wash dishes. She had used boiling soup.
Before Alex could even formulate a lethal response, sudden movement erupted from his right.
Grant Vance, Alex’s forty-year-old cousin and a senior Mafia-family associate, shot up from his chair near the center of the table. Grant wore an expensive, tailored suit, a luxury wristwatch gleaming on his arm. He possessed the arrogant, misplaced confidence of a man who believed his blood status made him untouchable.
Grant immediately moved between Alex and Evelyn, his polished leather shoes squeaking sharply against the floor as he squared his shoulders.
"Calm down, Alex," Grant commanded, raising his hands in a pathetic attempt to assert dominance over the Don. "You’re making a scene in front of the guests over a minor kitchen accident. The girl is fine, and Maya is just being dramatic. My aunt runs this house, and you need to respect her authority."
Alex did not even look at his cousin. He gently shifted Rosie’s weight, ensuring she was completely secure against his left side, away from the impending violence.
"Move," Alex growled, his deep, slightly raspy voice dropping to a volume so incredibly low and dangerous it forced the entire room to hold its breath.
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"I'm not going anywhere," Grant sneered, his fair face flushing with aggressive pride. "You think you can come in here and threaten your own mother? You’re getting soft, Alex. You let a civilian wife turn you into a coward."
Grant made the final, fatal mistake of his life. Emboldened by his own arrogance and Evelyn's presence, Grant violently lunged forward, throwing his right arm out in a heavy, looping strike aimed directly at Alex’s chest, intending to physically shove the Mafia boss backward.
