Chapter 2
The bright, airy warmth of the dining room suddenly felt suffocating. The golden light cascading from the crystal chandeliers illuminated the profound embarrassment etched into Howard’s aging features. Bea stood frozen beside the table, the silver serving spoon trembling in her own hands. She looked down at the beloved former boss, her heart aching for the proud man who was now forced to hide his hands like a scolded child.
Vincent, whose cold, perceptive eyes missed absolutely nothing in his domain, noticed his father’s guarded, shameful movement. He watched Howard’s hand vanish beneath the white damask, and the muscle in his sharply defined jaw clenched tight.
He slowly lifted his head, his thick, wavy hair catching the light. He deliberately turned his broad, powerful shoulders, sweeping his gaze past Daphne and meeting Bea’s eyes directly.
"Bea. Has he had his medicine?" Vincent asked.
His deep, low voice was quiet and incredibly deliberate. The measured pause after her name was not a request; it was a command that demanded absolute truth. The sheer, terrifying authority in his tone sliced through the ambient noise of the room like a straight razor.
The effect was instantaneous. Every single guest at the adjacent tables stopped eating. Forks hovered motionless over fine porcelain. Crystal stemware was lowered silently to the polished walnut tables. The polite, affluent chatter died in an instant. Thirty pairs of eyes turned toward the head of the room, watching the mafia boss direct his terrifying focus onto a servant.
Bea swallowed hard, a visible, painful gulp in her throat. Her heart hammered against her ribs, panic flooding her veins. She tried to hold his intense, perceptive gaze, but the terror was overwhelming. She knew the power Daphne wielded. Daphne had explicitly threatened to ruin her life if she spoke. But looking into Vincent’s cold eyes, Bea knew lying to him would be far worse.
Her inner brows lifted helplessly in a gesture of pure vulnerability. Moisture gathered rapidly along her lower eyelids, making her beautiful, expressive eyes shine brilliantly under the cascading light. She pressed her gently curved lips tightly together, fighting a losing battle against her fear.
Still looking directly at Vincent, Bea answered in a small, fragile, frightened voice.
"She took it away."
The confession hung in the bright, luminous air, freezing the warm atmosphere into solid ice. The guests held their collective breath, their fair, rosy faces paling in shock as they stared at the housemaid who had just publicly accused the future bride of a mafia king of abusing his father.
Daphne’s disapproving smile stiffened, the color draining slightly from her cheeks. She quickly looked at Vincent, attempting to reassert control over the narrative before it completely unraveled. She smoothed the satin of her sculpted evening gown, leaning forward to project an aura of calm, maternal authority.
"Vincent, darling, please," Daphne said, her voice dropping into a tone of manufactured patience. "Let's not make a scene over a simple misunderstanding. The girl is clearly confused."
"Do you believe my father's tremor is a misunderstanding, Daphne?" Vincent asked.
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He didn't wait for her answer. He moved smoothly from his position, his polished leather shoes silent against the thick carpet. He stepped deliberately beside Howard, placing his imposing, masculine frame firmly between Daphne and both his father and the trembling housemaid. It was a subtle, yet unmistakable declaration of protection.
Vincent reached down, his large hand—adorned with refined artistic tattoos—resting open on the table right beside his father’s plate, offering silent, unbreakable support.
