Chapter 2
Leading the elderly woman through the labyrinth of elegant dinner tables was Ivy Bennett. At twenty-seven, the housemaid was breathtakingly beautiful, possessing a movie-star quality that commanded silent attention. She had a delicate oval face, expressive almond-shaped eyes, softly defined cheekbones, and full, natural lips. Her fair, rosy skin was flawless under the bright, luminous lighting. Her dark hair was pinned meticulously into a neat, twisted bun, adding to her graceful demeanor.
Ivy possessed a slender figure with a sharply defined waist and an elegant posture that spoke of quiet resilience. She wore a sophisticated black maid dress with a fitted bodice and a short A-line skirt, complemented by a crisp white apron, collar, and cuffs. The uniform was polished and upscale, subtly seductive without being overtly revealing.
"Just a few more steps, Agnes," Ivy said gently, her American accent soothing and melodic as she guided the frail woman forward. "He is right up here at the front."
Beside her, leaning heavily on Ivy’s arm, was seventy-four-year-old Agnes Miller. Agnes was a fixture of Adrian’s past, the neighborhood baker who had fed and cared for him when he was nothing more than a starving boy on the streets. She wore a simple, modest formal dress covered by a worn, knitted cardigan. Her handbag hung loosely from the crook of her arm, but what she held tightest, clutched desperately against her chest, was a closed, heavy recipe book. The edges of the leather-bound book were severely scorched and blackened by fire.
"Who on earth is that?" Estelle demanded, her voice dropping into a harsh, aristocratic whisper as she noticed the pair approaching their exclusive table. "Adrian, why is the maid bringing a vagrant into the VIP section?"
"Watch your tone, Estelle," Adrian warned, his deep voice carrying a sudden, dangerous edge. "That woman is family."
Ivy reached the head table and carefully pulled out a plush, velvet-lined chair for the elderly woman. "Here you go, Agnes. Please, sit down and catch your breath."
Agnes carefully lowered herself into the chair, her frail frame trembling visibly. She continued to clutch the scorched recipe book against her heart, her rosy, wrinkled face pale with exhaustion and lingering shock.
Adrian stepped away from Estelle, a genuine, rare smile beginning to form on his handsome, angular face. He recognized the baker immediately, remembering the smell of fresh bread and the warm, golden light of her shop.
May you like
"Agnes," Adrian said warmly, reaching out his tattooed hand to greet her.
But as he looked closer, the smile abruptly faded from his face. The bright, clean lighting of the ballroom illuminated the severe tremors shaking the elderly woman's hands. He saw the black soot staining her worn cardigan, and the burned, charred edges of the beloved recipe book she had guarded for decades. The elegant warmth of the room suddenly felt entirely hollow to the Mafia boss.
