Chapter 2
Julian, usually a bundle of bright, infectious energy, was utterly helpless. The adorable little boy, dressed impeccably in a navy blue velvet blazer, a crisp white button-down shirt, and khaki trousers, was bound to a heavy upholstered dining chair. A thick, decorative fabric sash—pulled from the folded table linens nearby—was wrapped tightly around his small chest and wrists, pinning him down. His soft, glowing golden-brown skin looked ashen under the brilliant lighting, his tiny loafers kicking uselessly at the air.
Standing over him was Preston, Nia’s ten-year-old nephew. The boy, with his fair, rosy skin and crisp white dress shirt with rolled-up sleeves, sneered down at his younger cousin. Preston’s dark tailored shorts and suspenders made him look like a perfectly groomed heir, but his eyes held a malicious, deeply ingrained cruelty.
Without warning, Preston violently shoved the heavy dining chair sideways. Julian let out a terrified shriek as the chair tipped, sending the four-year-old crashing toward the thick Persian carpet.
Before Nia could cross the distance, Preston stepped forward and drove the toe of his clean white sneaker hard into Julian’s exposed ribs.
Julian dropped fully onto the carpet, the chair clattering beside him. The little boy gasped violently, his face twisting in absolute agony as he clutched his side, fighting desperately to draw air into his small lungs.
"Hey! Get away from him!" Nia screamed, sprinting across the room. Her metallic stilettos dug into the carpet as she reached into the bodice of her emerald gown, pulling out her sleek smartphone to call her private medical team.
Before her thumb could even hit the screen, a pale, manicured hand shot out from the shadows and violently snatched the phone from her grip.
Nia whirled around, her chest heaving. Standing beside her was Eleanor, her adoptive mother. At sixty-four, Eleanor possessed a chilling, aristocratic beauty. Her fair, rosy skin was perfectly powdered, and she wore a tailored pearl-white crepe dress that spoke of old, bloody money. A heavy pearl necklace rested against her collarbone, matching the heavy diamond cocktail rings on her fingers.
"Give me the phone, Eleanor. Right now," Nia demanded, her voice shaking with a rage so profound it bordered on madness.
Eleanor did not flinch. She slipped Nia’s phone into the pocket of her dress, her nude pumps shifting slightly on the carpet. She looked down at Julian, who was still gasping for air on the floor, with an expression of mild, detached irritation.
"You are overreacting, Nia, as usual," Eleanor said coldly, her aristocratic American accent echoing in the quiet room. She waved a dismissive hand adorned with diamonds. "Boys fight. It is the natural order of things in this family. The weak have no choice but to accept it. Preston is merely establishing the hierarchy."
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"He is four years old! He is suffocating!" Nia roared, the intimidation of a Mafia boss fully radiating from her bronze skin. "If he stops breathing, I will tear this house down with you in it."
"Mind your tone," Eleanor snapped back, her eyes narrowing. "He needs to learn where he stands. Now step back and let the boys sort it out."
