Chapter 3
Mara gently lifted the polished wooden cane from its velvet resting place. The wood was surprisingly heavy, cool to the touch, and gleaming under the warm golden light of the cascading crystal chandeliers. She held it carefully in both hands, feeling the collective gaze of the city’s most dangerous men pressing down on her shoulders. Her sophisticated black maid dress rustled softly as she stepped closer to Dante’s velvet dining chair.
"Is the wood crafted to handle my full weight?" Dante asked, looking up at Mara, his cold, observant eyes softening just a fraction as they met hers. "Will it hold me if I stumble?"
"It feels very sturdy, Mr. Ashford," Mara replied politely, her fair cheeks flushing a natural, rosy hue under his intense scrutiny. She kept her head slightly bowed, mindful of Cressida’s sharp, possessive glare tracking her every movement.
Mara shifted her grip, her delicate fingers finding the broad, silken presentation ribbon tied securely just beneath the silver handle. She pulled the meticulously tied bow. The heavy silk material loosened instantly, sliding smoothly away from the polished oak shaft.
As the ribbon slipped away, falling gracefully toward the cream marble floor, Mara’s fingers brushed against the wood beneath. She felt a sudden, jagged anomaly.
Her breath hitched in her throat. She looked down at the cane supported in her hands. Hidden perfectly beneath the broad ribbon was a deep, vicious cut. The thick oak shaft had been sawed nearly all the way through, leaving only a fragile, razor-thin sliver of wood holding the top and bottom halves together. If Dante were to stand and place his full weight upon the silver handle, the cane would instantly snap. The resulting fall would shatter his healing leg, crippling him permanently.
Mara stopped entirely. Her hands froze in mid-air, the damaged cane resting across her palms. Her expressive eyes widened in pure, unadulterated horror as she stared at the sabotaged wood.
The silence in the room stretched for two and a half seconds, heavy and suffocating.
Dante, whose situational awareness was legendary among the syndicates, immediately noticed the sudden rigidity in the housemaid’s posture. He saw the color drain completely from her fair, rosy skin. He saw the way her fingers trembled against the polished wood, refusing to extend the gift toward him.
He lowered the crystal glass of wine he had been holding, setting it down silently on the fine porcelain plate. He looked directly into her terrified, expressive eyes.
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"Mara?" Dante asked, his deep, low voice dropping in volume but escalating in dangerous intensity. The measured pause between his words felt like a physical weight in the room. "What’s wrong with my cane?"
Every single dinner guest stopped eating. Forks hovered over plates. Conversations died instantly in the throats of the capos and politicians. Dozens of heads turned in unison, their faces illuminated by the warm, golden light, all fixing their attention on the mafia boss and the trembling maid standing beside him. The air in the mansion turned to ice.
