Chapter 2
The absolute stillness of Vincent Hale sent an immediate, chilling ripple through the grand banquet hall. The clinking of crystal glasses and the soft scraping of silver against gold-rimmed porcelain ceased entirely. One by one, every single dinner guest stopped eating and speaking, turning their heads toward the head of the table. The warm golden light cascading from the chandeliers seemed to freeze in the air, highlighting the sudden, suffocating tension that had gripped the room.
Vincent did not look at the elite guests, nor did he look at his fiancée sitting beside him. He slowly turned his head, his dark, sweeping gaze locking directly onto Clara. The cold, unyielding armor he wore as the mafia boss slipped for a fraction of a second, revealing a profound, urgent questioning.
"Clara, my mother’s Christmas cookies?" Vincent asked, his deep, measured voice slicing through the heavy silence of the room like a physical blade.
The question hung in the bright, luminous air, demanding an answer that would dictate who lived and who died before morning. Evelyn Hale was famous for these distinctive cinnamon-star cookies, a recipe she had guarded with her life. But Evelyn was supposed to be thousands of miles away.
Clara stood frozen, her delicate features pale with residual shock. The entire syndicate was staring at her. She felt the crushing weight of their gazes, but the only eyes that mattered were the ones burning into hers. She met Vincent’s eyes, refusing to look away, despite the absolute terror racing through her veins.
Moisture gathered heavily along Clara’s lower eyelids, making her expressive eyes shine in the golden light. She steadied a trembling breath, her chest rising and falling rapidly against the pristine white apron of her maid dress.
"I was told to stay out of the lower levels, sir," Clara began, her voice shaking but resolute, carrying clearly across the silent room. "But we ran out of the imported vanilla, and I went down to the old storage pantry to find more."
"Will you get to the point, Clara?" Vincent asked slowly, the dangerous, vibrating cadence of his voice leaving no room for hesitation. "Where did these come from?"
"I heard a sound behind the heavy steel door at the end of the corridor," Clara continued, a single tear escaping to trace a path down her fair, rosy cheek. "I unlocked it."
Rosalind’s polished smile faltered for a fraction of a second. She shifted uncomfortably in her elegant burgundy evening gown, her diamond earrings shaking slightly. "Vincent, darling, the girl is clearly confused or seeking attention. She probably found an old tin."
Vincent did not even glance at Rosalind. "Will you finish your sentence, Clara?" Vincent asked. "What did you find behind the door?"
Clara looked directly into the eyes of the terrifying mafia boss, her voice breaking with raw, unprotected emotion.
May you like
"Your mother’s locked downstairs," Clara revealed.
The words dropped like a devastating explosive charge onto the marble floor. A collective gasp echoed from the velvet dining chairs nearby. Vincent’s sharp jawline tightened dangerously, the muscles ticking beneath his neat stubble. The implication was horrific. His mother was not receiving treatment abroad; she had been imprisoned like an animal in the freezing underbelly of his own mansion.
