Chapter 10
The atmosphere in the grand dining hall shattered, transforming from a scene of luxury into a high-definition, cinematic portrait of impending doom. The bright, natural light seemed to sharpen, acting as an unforgiving spotlight on the unfolding tragedy.
[10s - 12.5s]
Nora slowly opened her eyes. The profound, protective strength she had summoned to shield the child remained unbroken. She met Damian’s intense, terrifying gaze without flinching. She was holding his entire world securely in her arms, her sophisticated black maid dress contrasting with the crisp white of her apron and the tiny dress shirt of the boy clinging to her.
"I couldn't leave him alone," Nora said. Her American accent was trembling, her voice fragile but laced with undeniable, fierce bravery. The confession hung in the air—an admission that she had broken the rules of the house, that she had snuck into locked rooms in the dead of night, to comfort a child terrorized by a monster.
Damian did not speak immediately. He slowly lowered his gaze. He looked at Oliver’s small, pale fingers, which were knotted desperately, with white-knuckled intensity, into the crisp white fabric of Nora’s apron. It was the grip of a child holding onto a lifeline in the dark.
The sharply defined muscles of Damian’s jaw tightened so fiercely that a vein pulsed visibly at his temple. The extremely short, neatly trimmed stubble on his jawline seemed to bristle with the apocalyptic rage building inside his chest.
Behind him, realizing the catastrophic, lethal nature of her exposure, Camille took one silent, terrified step backward. Her expensive heels scraped softly against the floor. She was a dead woman walking, and the entire room of hardened Mafia elites knew it.
[12.5s - 15s]
Damian slowly raised his head, returning his cold, sharp eyes entirely to Nora’s beautiful, tear-streaked face.
The charming, romantic aura was gone completely. What stood before her was the veteran Mafia Boss, a man who had built an empire on violence and absolute control, realizing that his most sacred boundary had been violated in his own home.
His voice dropped into a terrifying, guttural register. It was controlled, measured, but rough with a suppressed, volcanic anger that threatened to tear the mansion apart.
"Nora," Damian whispered, the single word echoing like a death knell in the massive, quiet hall.
All two hundred guests remained in absolute, paralyzed silence. Their fair, rosy faces were turned entirely toward him, waiting for the executioner's blade to fall. The air was so still that the faint sound of the chandeliers swaying could be heard.
"How many nights?" Damian asked.
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The question was a lethal demand for the truth, a calculation of exactly how much blood would need to be spilled to rectify the sins committed against his bloodline.
Nora’s lips parted slightly, her breath catching in her throat as she prepared to deliver the final, damning truth. In her arms, sensing the profound shift in power, Oliver pressed closer to her, burying his face safely against her neck, finally protected by the unyielding wrath of his father.
