Chapter 2
The heavy double doors connecting the conservatory to the estate’s private council room swung open without a sound.
Cullen Ravello stepped over the threshold. At thirty-two, he possessed a devastatingly handsome, movie-star quality, his masculinity deeply entrenched in his identity as a Mafia Boss. His thick, slightly wavy dark hair was slicked back, with a few loose strands falling perfectly over his forehead, creating a deceptive, romantic charm. His angular face, high-bridged nose, and sharply defined jawline were framed by extremely short, neatly trimmed stubble. His crisp dress shirt was unbuttoned at the chest, revealing the edge of artistic, refined tattoos that crept up his neck and hands—sharp designs with enough negative space to look elegant, yet undeniably dangerous.
Cullen froze.
His cold, sharp, intimidating eyes took in the scene in a fraction of a second. He saw his mother trapped in the wicker chair. He saw his fiancée standing with a cruel smile. And he saw his three-year-old daughter suffocating on the floor.
He moved with blinding speed. The casual elegance vanished, replaced instantly by the lethal precision of an apex predator. Cullen dropped to the floor, sliding his hand blindly beneath the heavy stone table until his tattooed fingers brushed the plastic inhaler.
He ripped it out from the shadows, dropping to his knees directly beside Mireya.
"I'm here. Daddy's here," Cullen murmured. His voice was deep, slightly raspy, and incredibly low.
He pressed the inhaler to Mireya’s lips and triggered the canister. The little girl gasped, her tiny lungs eagerly accepting the medicine. Cullen held her gently against his chest, his large, tattooed hand rubbing her back in slow, soothing circles while she took a second, deeper breath. The terrifying pallor began to fade from her fair, rosy cheeks, replaced by the flush of returning oxygen.
Margaret steadied herself against the wicker chair, tears of relief spilling from her eyes. "She took it from me, Cullen. She threw it away."
Mireya clung to her father’s unbuttoned shirt, burying her face into his chest. "Daddy…" the little girl cried, speaking between ragged hiccups. "I can’t breathe."
"You are breathing now, principessa," Cullen whispered, kissing the top of her head. "Take it slow. Just listen to my heart."
He remained on the floor for a long moment, ensuring the rhythm of her breathing returned to normal. Only when he was absolutely certain his daughter was safe did the Mafia boss slowly rise to his feet.
May you like
The silence in the glass-roofed room was absolute. The bright, natural light seemed to focus entirely on Cullen as he turned his angular face toward his fiancée. There was no rage in his eyes. There was only a cold, dark, endless void.
"Cullen, darling," Tove started, her American accent suddenly wavering as she took a half-step backward. "She was faking it. I was just trying to teach her some discipline."
