Chapter 2
The echoes of Camilla’s vicious scream had barely faded when the temperature in the ballroom plummeted to absolute zero. Domenico Valenti moved with a terrifying, explosive speed that defied his fifty-one years. The heavy, polished leather of his shoes barely made a sound as he crossed the marble floor, his dark three-piece suit a blur of lethal intent.
"Get away from her," Domenico commanded. His voice did not echo, nor was it a shout, but the deep, gravelly timbre held a quiet violence that paralyzed every breathing soul in the vicinity.
Domenico immediately dropped to one knee, ignoring the sharp porcelain shards that bit into the expensive fabric of his trousers. He scooped Livia into his arms, lifting his daughter safely away from the broken debris. He cradled her against his chest, his large hand gently pressing against the back of her head, burying her tear-stained, rosy face into his dress shirt.
"Daddy," Livia sobbed, her tiny body trembling uncontrollably against him. Her voice was a fragile, broken whisper. "I’m sorry. I didn't mean to. Daddy… I’m sorry."
"I know, principessa," Domenico whispered, his voice softening only for her. "I know you didn't. You are safe. Daddy has you."
As Domenico shifted his weight to stand, his sharp, predatory eyes caught something out of place. Amidst the shattered white porcelain, resting on the clean marble exactly where the heavy base of the antique vase had sat, was a yellowed, sealed envelope. It had been meticulously hidden beneath the heavy antique, concealed from the world until Livia’s accident exposed it.
Camilla’s eyes followed his gaze. The color instantly drained from her fair, rosy face, leaving her looking sickly and pale. The arrogant, furious woman who had just struck a child vanished, replaced by someone entirely consumed by blind, suffocating terror.
"Marco," Camilla gasped, her voice barely a squeak. "Marco, the vase."
Marco stepped forward, his eyes locking onto the yellowed envelope. The confident demeanor of the forty-three-year-old Mafia associate evaporated. His breathing turned shallow, his chest heaving under his tailored suit.
"Domenico, let me help you clean this up," Marco said, his American accent trembling as he forced a completely unconvincing smile. "It's just garbage. The staff can take care of it."
"Do not insult my intelligence, Marco," Domenico said, his eyes never leaving the sealed envelope. He kept one arm securely wrapped around his sobbing daughter, anchoring her to his chest.
"It's nothing, Dom, I swear," Marco stammered, taking a panicked, desperate step forward. "Just let me grab it. We don't want the guests stepping on it."
"No one is moving," Domenico ordered.
With his free hand, Domenico reached down toward the marble. His fingers, adorned with the heavy family signet ring, brushed against the yellowed paper.
"I said, leave it!" Marco shouted, his panic entirely overriding his survival instincts. He lunged forward, his polished shoes sliding slightly on the marble.
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Domenico reached it first. He gripped the envelope.
In a sheer, blind panic, Marco grabbed Domenico’s wrist with both hands. "Give me that envelope," Marco demanded, his voice cracking with hysteria.
