Chapter 2
Elena stumbled backward from the forceful shove, her back hitting the edge of a heavy oak dresser. She clutched her arm, her breath catching in her throat, but her terrified eyes remained fixed on the elderly woman kneeling among the spilled fruit.
"Mr. Michael, please," Elena pleaded, her voice shaking violently. "She is your mother. How can you stand there and watch this? Mr. Dominic will kill us all if he finds out."
"My brother is a fool who clings to the past," Michael scoffed, adjusting the cuffs of his dress shirt. The luxury wristwatch on his arm gleamed in the bright, vivid daylight of the room. He looked down at his mother with an expression of pure, unadulterated disgust. "He spends half the family's resources keeping this relic comfortable. It’s pathetic."
"He will never forgive you for this," Donna whispered, her fair, wrinkled face streaked with tears as she looked up at her youngest son. "Michael, I am your mother."
"You are a liability," Hattie interjected, giving the dog leash another sharp, vicious tug that made Donna gasp in pain. "And as soon as Dominic is out of the picture, we are going to put you in a state facility where you belong."
Unbeknownst to the three of them, the heavy, soundproof double doors leading from the private office corridor had just opened.
Dominic Coleman stepped into the guest room.
At fifty-five years old, Dominic was a man of terrifying, deeply masculine power. He possessed the rugged, intimidating aura of a veteran Mafia boss who had built an empire on blood and respect. He wore a flawlessly tailored dark three-piece suit, a pristine white dress shirt, and polished leather shoes that gleamed like dark mirrors. A heavy family signet ring rested on his hand, and his fair, rosy skin was pulled tight over a sharply defined, hardened jawline.
He took one step into the room and completely froze.
The cinematic, bright colors of the room seemed to sharpen into high-definition clarity as Dominic’s cold, penetrating eyes took in the scene. He saw the spilled food basket. He saw his trusted housekeeper cowering by the dresser. He saw his younger brother standing by with a cruel smirk. And then, his gaze locked onto the dog leash clutched in his wife’s hand, leading directly to the frail, trembling shoulders of his eighty-year-old mother kneeling on the floor.
The air in the room instantly turned to solid ice.
Donna slowly turned her head, her tear-filled eyes landing on the towering figure of her eldest son. The sheer, overwhelming relief that flooded her face was absolutely heartbreaking.
"Dominic…" Donna whispered, her voice shaking with residual terror and profound exhaustion. She reached a frail, trembling hand out toward him. "Dominic… please don’t leave me with them again."
The words dropped into the bright, sunlit room like a live grenade.
Hattie’s cruel laugh died instantly in her throat. She whipped her head around, her elegant earrings swinging wildly, and saw her husband standing in the doorway. The color drained entirely from her fair, rosy cheeks, leaving her looking sickly and pale.
"Dominic!" Hattie gasped, her American accent cracking into a high-pitched, desperate squeak.
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Michael stiffened, his arrogant posture faltering for a fraction of a second before he tried to mask his sudden panic with forced bravado.
Dominic did not speak. The silence radiating from the deeply masculine, powerful Mafia boss was infinitely more terrifying than any shout or threat could ever be.
