Chapter 2
The heavy silk curtains framing the tall windows seemed to absorb the suffocating tension radiating from Etta as she held onto the mafia boss's wrist. Her delicate cheekbones drained of their natural rosy color. The soft, golden illumination of the room suddenly felt blinding and interrogative.
Dominic, whose cold, observant eyes missed absolutely nothing in his domain, did not react frantically. The absolute stillness of his muscular, masculine frame was infinitely more dangerous. He slowly lowered the teacup back onto its saucer, the porcelain making a sharp, final clink.
He turned his head. He looked past his own tattooed hand and locked his gaze directly into Etta’s expressive, terrified eyes.
"Etta. What’s in my tea?"
Dominic’s voice was deep, quiet, and incredibly deliberate. He spoke exclusively in questions, a chilling linguistic habit that stripped away all defenses and demanded absolute, unvarnished truth. The measured, chilling pause after her name sliced through the ambient chatter of the room like a straight razor.
The effect was instantaneous and absolute. Every single guest at the polished walnut tables stopped eating and speaking. Forks hovered motionless over fine porcelain. Crystal wine glasses were lowered slowly. Dozens of fair, rosy-cheeked faces turned toward the head of the room, watching the mafia boss direct his terrifying, unbroken focus onto the housemaid.
Bridget, standing to Dominic's left, stiffened. The golden light caught the sudden pallor of her fair skin. Next to her saucer rested the small, unmarked dropper bottle. She quickly met Dominic’s cold gaze, forcing her lips into a faint, reassuring smile that did not quite reach her eyes.
"Just sleeping drops, darling," Bridget stated, her American accent dripping with condescending reassurance.
Her eyes frantically searched Dominic’s angular expression for a sign of agreement, silently urging him to play along and not cause a scene in front of their powerful guests. She needed him to turn away from the housemaid and drink the tea.
Etta held Dominic’s intense, unyielding gaze, refusing to let go of his wrist. Her heart hammered against her ribs like a trapped bird. She knew the extreme danger of crossing Bridget Shaw, a woman who had already committed murder to secure her place in the syndicate. But looking into Dominic's perceptive eyes, Etta knew she could not let him die.
Her lips trembled slightly, but she stood her ground. Her sophisticated black maid dress felt like armor as she finally released his wrist.
Dominic rose slowly from his champagne velvet chair, drawing it out slightly. He placed his towering, broad-shouldered frame deliberately between Bridget and both Etta and his seven-year-old son, Lewis, who was seated on his right. His dark tailored suit acted as a massive, physical shield, cutting off the socialite's line of sight.
Etta took a shallow breath, looking directly at the mafia boss. Her voice was thin, frightened, but devastatedly clear in the silent room.
"That’s what killed your father."
The words hit the room with the force of a detonating bomb. A collective, quiet gasp rippled through the fifty elite guests.
Before anyone could process the sheer magnitude of the accusation, a small voice broke the tableau.
Lewis, sitting rigidly in his formal dinner jacket and buttoned shirt, slowly turned his head. The little boy’s fair cheeks were pale, and his small shoulders were drawn inward defensively. He looked directly at Bridget, bypassing his father's protective frame.
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Lewis’s fingers tightened desperately around the white linen napkin in his lap. He spoke softly, with a profound, frightened recognition that cut straight to the bone.
"You said Grandpa wouldn't wake."
