Chapter 2
The dinner service had moved with flawless, terrifying precision, a testament to the iron grip Quentin held over his household. The main courses were being cleared by a silent, efficient staff, leaving only the soft hum of conversation and the clinking of crystal glasses. Holly moved gracefully toward the head table, her heart hammering a frantic, irregular rhythm against her ribs.
She stepped up to the polished walnut table, her eyes carefully avoiding the sharp gaze of the mafia boss. She positioned herself directly beside Finn’s champagne velvet chair.
"Are you ready for dessert, young master?" Holly whispered, leaning down under the guise of clearing his untouched plate.
Finn did not answer. He was trembling violently, his cream shirt clinging to his small frame. His fair, rosy skin was entirely drained of color.
Holly drew a steadying breath. She slipped her hand into her apron pocket and retrieved the small, silver scissors. Moving with deliberate, agonizing slowness so as not to draw the attention of the surrounding capos, Holly reached under the table. She gently drew Finn’s linen napkin aside, exposing the cruel satin ribbon cutting deep into his small, fair wrists.
She brought the scissors toward Finn’s lap.
Finn gasped, flinching violently. He jerked his hands away, terrified of being caught receiving help, terrified of the punishment Bianca had promised him. The sudden, frantic movement caused his polished shoes to scrape loudly against the hardwood floor.
The edge of the polished walnut table concealed Finn’s bound wrists from Quentin’s line of sight, but the mafia boss possessed the instincts of an apex predator. Quentin’s head snapped toward the movement. His cold, perceptive eyes locked onto Holly’s hand holding the scissors, and then shifted immediately to his son's terrified, wide-eyed expression.
The small artistic tattoo on Quentin's neck shifted as his sharply defined jaw tightened. He slowly turned his head, his gaze bypassing his fiancée completely. He looked directly into Holly’s eyes, piercing through her with a terrifying intensity.
"Holly," Quentin said.
His deep, low voice dropped a full octave. He allowed a measured, agonizing pause to linger after her name. The sound was not a shout, but the cold accusation carried a gravity that commanded absolute silence. Every single guest stopped eating. Conversations died in their throats. Dozens of powerful men and women turned their heads toward the head of the table in total, suffocating silence.
"Why are you hurting Finn?" Quentin asked.
The golden light from the cascading crystal chandeliers suddenly felt harsh and exposing, bearing down on Holly as she stood pinned by the mafia boss’s stare. The silence in the dining room was absolute, a heavy vacuum that amplified the sound of her own frantic heartbeat.
Before Holly could force the words past the lump of terror in her throat, Bianca intervened.
Bianca smoothly adjusted her posture, the sculpted garnet satin of her gown rustling softly. She met Quentin’s stunned, intense gaze with a faint, concerned smile, projecting the image of a devoted, protective fiancée attempting to expose a malicious servant.
"She threatened him with those," Bianca said, her voice sounding softly regretful, dripping with manufactured pity.
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She offered the lie with effortless, chilling perfection. Her eyes frantically searched Quentin’s angular face for any sign of agreement, any indication that he would accept her version of reality and dismiss the beautiful housemaid.
Holly refused to back down. She gripped the cold metal of the scissors, her heart blazing with a fierce, protective fire for the boy sitting beside her. She knew the cost of defying the future bride of a mafia boss, but looking at Finn's trembling hands, she no longer cared.
