Chapter 4
The brilliant, vivid colors of the conservatory—the bright greens of the citrus leaves, the stark white of the wicker furniture—seemed to sharpen into absolute clarity as Cullen worked. He shook the inhaler with rapid, precise movements, his tattooed fingers contrasting against the bright plastic.
"Open your mouth, angel," Cullen murmured, bringing the mouthpiece to Mireya’s pale lips. "Breathe with me. On three. One, two, three."
He pressed the canister, delivering the lifesaving medication into her restricted airways. Mireya gasped, her small chest heaving as the medicine finally breached her lungs. She coughed violently, her fair, rosy cheeks flushing with a rapid, terrifying rush of blood.
"Daddy…" Mireya cried between desperate breaths, her tiny hands clutching the unbuttoned collar of his dress shirt. "Daddy… I can't breathe."
"You're breathing now, sweetheart. Just look at me. Focus on my eyes," Cullen instructed softly. His volume remained low, steadying the child's racing heart. "Slowly. In and out. I have you. Nobody is going to let you stop breathing."
Margaret managed to pull herself up from the wicker chair, hobbling over to them. She dropped to her knees beside her son, placing a trembling hand on Mireya’s back. "Oh, thank God. Thank God you came out of that meeting, Cullen. She took it from her. She literally tore it from my hands."
Cullen held his daughter tightly against his chest, waiting for the rhythmic, steady rise and fall of her breathing to return to normal. As the wheezing finally subsided into soft, exhausted hiccups, the terrifying, protective father slowly began to recede, and the lethal, calculating Mafia Boss rose to the surface.
"She is fine, Cullen," Tove said, crossing her arms defensively. "See? It was just a little panic attack. If you coddle her every time she coughs, she's going to grow up weak."
Cullen did not answer her. He gently handed Mireya over to his mother.
"Take her to the east wing, Mother," Cullen said, his voice a low, vibrating hum that commanded absolute obedience. "Lock the doors. Do not let anyone inside."
"Yes, my son," Margaret whispered, gathering the exhausted toddler into her arms and hurrying toward the exit.
Cullen slowly rose to his feet. The bright natural light illuminated his movie-star handsome face, casting no shadows, revealing the absolute, icy murder resting in his eyes. He slowly buttoned his suit jacket, the sharp, artistic tattoos on his hands flexing as he prepared to address the people who had just tried to kill his daughter.
May you like
"You think this is funny, Cullen?" Chase sneered, misinterpreting the deadly silence for hesitation. "You're embarrassing yourself over a child's tantrum. Tove is going to be your wife. You need to back her up."
Cullen slowly turned his head, his sharp jawline setting like granite. He locked his cold, intimidating eyes onto Chase Mercer.
