Chapter 3
The cinematic light of the afternoon sun caught the sudden, sharp movement of the housemaid. The fifty guests surrounding the tables gasped collectively, their champagne glasses momentarily forgotten as the impossible unfolded before them.
Freya didn't hesitate. She gripped the edge of the woven basket tightly, her knuckles turning white against the wicker. Using the momentum of her crouched position, she swung her arm upward in one continuous, forceful motion.
The basket arced through the air. A massive, heavy clump of damp potting soil launched directly at Hester’s face.
The dark, wet earth connected with a loud, wet smack.
Hester shrieked, a high-pitched sound of absolute shock and revulsion. She recoiled violently, her hands flying up to cover her eyes as the damp soil exploded against her face. Chunks of dark dirt scattered across the pristine fabric of her elegant, expensive garden-party gown, ruining the silk instantly.
"Ah! My eyes!" Hester screamed, stumbling backward onto the grass, completely blinded by the unexpected assault.
The sudden, chaotic violence from the gentle housemaid completely derailed the two massive bodyguards. Both the Black American and the white American guard turned their heads sharply, their attention instantly snapping toward the screaming woman who paid their salaries.
In their surprise, they instinctively loosened their crushing grip on Malcolm’s upper arms, stepping slightly forward to assist the blinded matriarch.
It was a fatal miscalculation.
With a powerful, explosive surge of masculine strength, Malcolm pulled his arms free from their weakened hold. He ripped his sleeves from their grasp, his broad shoulders snapping back into a fighting stance.
The sudden movement caused the two guards to freeze, realizing their mistake. They turned back toward the boss, but it was too late. The tactical advantage was gone. The element of surprise had vanished, replaced by the lethal, cold reality of an unrestrained Mafia boss.
The watching guests, some of whom had been holding back snickers at Malcolm's initial humiliation, stopped laughing instantly. The polite, affluent conversation that had characterized the garden party evaporated into a suffocating, terrified silence. No one spoke a word. The air grew heavy, thick with the promise of impending violence.
Freya immediately set the empty basket down. She did not look at the gasping, cursing woman thrashing on the grass, desperately trying to wipe the mud from her diamond earrings.
She turned immediately back to Malcolm.
She stepped closer to him, her flat shoes sinking slightly into the disrupted soil. With trembling fingers, she carefully cradled his reddened wrist again, holding it gently against her white apron, offering him the same quiet, protective affection she had shown him when he was pinned.
Malcolm did not pull away. With his free hand, he slowly, deliberately placed the uprooted flower back into the damp soil of the flower bed, pressing the earth firmly around its roots to give it a chance to survive.
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He slowly stood up to his full height, dusting his hands off on his tailored trousers. He looked directly at Hester, who was currently being supported by the two terrified bodyguards.
"Pack your things," Malcolm said.
