Her eyes locking onto the small gold memorial locket held open at chest level in Sabine Whitlock's fingers

The golden highlights in Sabine’s hair trembled as she paced the length of the deserted head table. The grand illusion of the engagement dinner was entirely broken. The clean whites of the table linens felt mocking, a symbol of purity in a room deeply stained by her malice. Sabine glared at the beautiful, gentle maid who stood protected by the mafia boss's formidable presence.

“You look at her!” Sabine screamed, her voice echoing off the gilded mirrors. “You never look at me like that, Damon! You never speak to me with that tone! We are getting married, and yet you spend your evenings talking to a servant in the library! I had to put her in her place!”

“Does a quiet conversation in a library justify washing a child’s ashes down a drain?” Damon asked, his deep, low voice vibrating with a terrifying calm.

Naomi closed her eyes, the horrifying reality of Sabine’s words washing over her again. The ashes were gone. Her little boy was gone all over again. A soft, devastating sob escaped her lips. She swayed on her feet, the cinched waist of her sophisticated maid dress feeling suddenly too tight to breathe in.

Damon immediately reached out, his hand firmly gripping Naomi’s elbow to keep her upright. He shielded her delicate frame with his broad shoulders, his dark three-piece suit acting as a barrier between Naomi and the cruel woman in the champagne satin gown.

“Are you satisfied with the devastation you have caused tonight, Sabine?” Damon asked, his eyes devoid of all mercy.

“I am your equal!” Sabine insisted, tears of frustration ruining her immaculate makeup. “I am the daughter of a boss! I did what I had to do to protect our future! The Whitlock family demands respect, Damon!”

“Do you mistake petty, vindictive theft for a demonstration of power?” Damon asked, stepping slightly forward. “Are you truly so weak that you must torture a mourning mother to feel secure in your own position?”

Sabine opened her mouth to scream another defense, but the heavy mahogany doors at the far end of the dining room swung open. Three of Damon’s personal enforcers stepped into the luminous, airy room, their faces grave and entirely devoted to the man in the tailored suit.

“Boss, the guests have been escorted to the gates. What are your orders?” the lead enforcer asked, his eyes darting briefly to the weeping maid and the frantic fiancée.

Damon did not break eye contact with Sabine. His neatly trimmed stubble cast a sharp shadow along his jawline in the gentle golden light.