Chapter 2
The heavy mahogany doors of the adjoining private study burst open, crashing loudly against the walls.
Iona Merriton rushed out of the room, leaving the door wide open behind her. The twenty-five-year-old housemaid was breathtakingly beautiful, her dark hair pinned into a neat bun beneath a white lace maid headband. She wore a fitted black maid dress, a crisp white apron, a white collar and cuffs, and flat shoes.
She did not hesitate. She did not look at the sixty guests staring in frozen horror. Iona moved with desperate speed, dropping gracefully onto the carpet beside Cormac.
Her expressive eyes were wide with sheer, unadulterated panic as she carefully slipped her arms beneath his broad shoulders, supporting his weight. Her fingers trembled violently against the fine wool of his dark suit. She searched his angular face, looking for any sign of serious injury.
"Sir… I’m here. Look at me," Iona whispered softly, her American accent cracking with profound fear.
Cormac’s cold eyes softened for a fraction of a second as he looked up at her delicate features. He reached up, his heavily tattooed hand gripping her forearm with a firm, grounding pressure. He could feel her trembling against him, and the protective fury that ignited in his chest was hotter than the fires of hell.
"I am unharmed, Iona," Cormac murmured, his deep voice remaining steady to calm her.
But Gareth was not finished. He gestured sharply to his left.
Before Cormac could push himself up from the floor, the two massive bodyguards stepped forward in unison. They moved with mechanical efficiency, seizing Cormac’s upper arms in a crushing grip, hauling him roughly upward but preventing him from fully rising to his feet. They pinned his arms behind his back, forcing him to remain vulnerable.
Iona gasped, instinctively grabbing the lapel of Cormac's suit, trying to pull him free from the men. The Black bodyguard simply swatted her hand away without looking at her.
Gareth approached the trapped Mafia boss. He raised his fist, the heavy metal of his luxury wristwatch gleaming under the bright, cinematic light. He pulled his arm back, preparing to strike Cormac directly in the face.
"Now your little maid can watch," Gareth said cruelly, his eyes locked on his cousin.
May you like
Iona’s eyes widened. The man she cared for, the man who had always protected her in the shadows of the estate, was about to be brutalized in front of her. A fierce, blinding wave of protective rage obliterated every ounce of fear in her body. She did not scream. She did not call for help.
Iona sprang up from the carpet. She planted her flat shoes, twisted her hips to generate momentum, and delivered one hard, perfectly placed punch directly into Gareth’s upper abdomen.
