Chapter 3
The silence in the grand dining room was suffocating. The cinematic, warm golden light from the crystal chandeliers seemed to freeze the scene in absolute stillness. The elite guests remained completely silent, paralyzed by the sheer terror radiating from the mafia boss standing beside his chair.
Adele stood frozen under Leander's terrifying scrutiny. She knew the power Marielle wielded as the future mistress of the house. Earlier that afternoon, Caleb had been playing near the parlor when he heard the voice. Adele had found him crying and discovered the source. Marielle had caught her investigating and threatened to ensure she never found work in the city again if she breathed a word of the incident to anyone.
But Adele held Leander’s unyielding gaze.
Her expressive inner brows lifted slightly in a gesture of profound, helpless sadness. Moisture gathered rapidly along her lower eyelids, catching the bright, luminous lighting of the room. She thought of the desperate, muffled crying of the six-year-old boy, the sound of a child whose heart had been broken by a phantom voice.
"Your voice," Adele whispered.
Her voice was soft, strained, and incredibly thin. It cut through the silent room like a razor blade. She swallowed hard afterward, the sound audible in the breathless room, keeping one steady, reassuring hand pressed firmly against Caleb’s small shoulder. She was terrified of what speaking the truth was going to cost her, but she refused to abandon the boy.
"On her phone."
The addition of those three words turned the suffocating silence into a vacuum. Adele’s eyes didn't shift, but the implication was devastatingly clear.
Marielle Shaw moved with lightning speed. The polished, affectionate smile she had worn all evening vanished for a fraction of a second, replaced by sheer, unadulterated panic. She immediately lunged forward, clutching her small evening bag tightly against her sculpted satin gown.
"It wasn't meant for him," Marielle blurted out.
Her explanation came far too quickly. She met Leander’s cold, perceptive eyes and attempted a small, disarming smile. It was a flawless performance designed for the surrounding guests, an attempt to portray herself as the victim of an unfortunate misunderstanding. But her eyes were frantic, checking his angular face entirely too closely for his reaction.
Leander didn't yell. The terrifying power of the mafia boss lay in his absolute, unhurried control. He moved smoothly, his polished leather shoes making no sound against the thick rugs.
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He stepped directly beside Adele and Caleb, placing his massive, powerful frame squarely between the terrified housemaid and his fiancée. He was an impenetrable wall of tailored dark wool and lethal intent, keeping them safely on his side of the table.
Caleb looked up at his father's broad shoulders. The boy took a hesitant, trembling step forward. Slowly, cautiously, Caleb reached out and rested his tiny fingertips in the center of his father’s waiting, tattooed palm.
