Chapter 3
The sight of the mafia boss freezing in his seat sent a shockwave of anxiety through Corisande. From her position near the dessert table, the twenty-five-year-old housemaid had seen the champagne spill, but more importantly, she recognized the absolute terror that had briefly flashed in Florian's usually stoic eyes.
Corisande did not hesitate. The strict protocols of the mafia household vanished from her mind. She immediately approached the head table, her flat shoes gliding silently over the polished marble floor.
"Excuse me, please," Corisande murmured, stepping smoothly between a highly-ranked capo and one of Octavia’s towering bodyguards.
She reached the back of Florian’s chair. Her expressive face was a mask of fierce, protective determination. She ignored Octavia completely. Instead, Corisande gently reached down and lifted Florian’s soaked, heavy suit jacket from his broad shoulders.
"Allow me, sir," Corisande said softly, her voice steady despite the adrenaline coursing through her veins.
She pulled the damp garment away and seamlessly retrieved his dry, heavy overcoat that had been resting on the back of the chair. With practiced, graceful movements, she draped the dry overcoat around his shoulders, shielding his soaked shirt from the prying eyes of the ballroom.
Florian turned his head, searching her beautiful, worried face. The proximity allowed him to see the rapid pulse beating at the base of her throat.
"Corisande…" Florian began, his voice low, controlled, but laced with a terrifying desperation. "Where is my son?"
The question wasn't just an inquiry; it was a plea from a desperate father. As the deep timbre of his voice broke the immediate silence around the table, every nearby guest stopped talking. The clinking of silverware ceased. Relatives, capos, and staff turned their heads toward the head table, drawn by the sudden, palpable shift in the room's energy.
"What are you doing?" Octavia hissed at Corisande, her polished smile finally cracking. "Get away from him, you stupid girl."
"I am tending to Mr. Whitmere, ma'am," Corisande replied, her American accent crisp and unwavering, refusing to break eye contact with Florian.
"Corisande," Florian repeated, his hand reaching up to grip the lapel of his overcoat, his tattooed fingers trembling slightly with restrained panic. "Tell me. Right now."
"I need you to step back, maid," the white American bodyguard demanded, stepping closer to Corisande and reaching out to grab her arm.
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"Touch her and I will break your neck," Florian promised, his voice echoing coldly across the sudden silence of the ballroom. The bodyguard froze, recognizing the lethal sincerity in the boss's eyes.
Florian looked back at the housemaid, his entire world hanging on her next words.
