Chapter 2
Across the expansive, brightly lit ballroom, Roman D’Angelo was in his element. At thirty-five, he possessed a deeply masculine, distinctly Mafia Boss-like presence that commanded the entire room. He was devastatingly handsome, with thick, neatly styled dark hair, an angular face, a sharply defined jawline, and a short, perfectly trimmed full beard. His fair, rosy skin contrasted with the dark ink of artistic tattoos creeping up his neck and wrapping around his arms. The designs were refined and sharp, utilizing enough negative space to look elegant yet incredibly dangerous. He wore a tailored dark three-piece suit, a crisp white dress shirt, a heavy gold signet ring, and a luxury wristwatch.
Roman had been shaking hands and greeting high-profile donors, projecting the absolute authority of the D'Angelo family. But his cold, sharp, intimidating eyes missed nothing. Through the shifting crowd of formal gowns and expensive suits, he caught a glimpse of a disturbance near the entrance. He saw the modest coat, the worn cardigan, and the unmistakable, panicked struggle.
"Excuse me," Roman murmured to the capo he was speaking with. His voice was deep, slightly raspy, and naturally authoritative.
He moved across the marble floor with the predatory grace of a wolf. The guests instinctively parted for him. As he cleared the last group of donors, he stopped dead in his tracks. The bright, cinematic lighting illuminated the scene with painful clarity. He saw his mother standing aggressively over a young woman. And then, he saw the child.
Sophie was crying softly, rubbing the arm where Helena had grabbed her. She looked up, her tear-filled blue eyes scanning the room for an escape, only to land squarely on the towering, tattooed man standing just a few feet away.
Sophie stared at him. The little girl’s breath hitched in her throat, her eyes widening in absolute, paralyzing disbelief. The resemblance was undeniable; she had his eyes, his fair skin, his facial structure.
Roman froze. His heart slammed against his ribs, a sudden, suffocating pressure seizing his chest.
"Daddy?" Sophie asked. Her tiny voice cracked, sobbing through her tears, speaking between ragged hiccups. "Grandma said you were dead."
The words echoed in the space between them, freezing the blood in Roman's veins. He stared at the three-year-old girl, the daughter he had been told was lost, the daughter he had mourned in silence.
Nora looked up at the sound of her daughter's voice. Her eyes locked onto Roman. She was equally stunned, her beautiful face shifting from terror to sheer, unadulterated shock. She looked from Roman's living, breathing form to the horrified face of Helena D'Angelo.
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"You..." Nora gasped, her entire body shaking as the catastrophic deception finally unraveled before her eyes. "She told us... she told us your money stopped three years ago. She said you were killed in the crossfire."
Roman's cold, sharp eyes shifted slowly from Nora's desperate, tear-stained face to his mother. Helena’s arrogant posture crumbled instantly. Her fair skin turned the color of ash, and she slowly, instinctively, began to back away from her son.
