Chapter 2
The bright, natural sunlight reflected harshly off the jagged pieces of broken porcelain scattered across the Persian rug. June Harper remained completely silent, her head bowed as her fair, rosy hands moved methodically over the carpet, gathering the ruins of the breakfast tray. She was profoundly aware of the dangerous man looming above her in the wheelchair.
Rocco Santoro watched her. His cold, piercing eyes narrowed. He was accustomed to fear, to tears, to the immediate, desperate apologies of those who served him. This penniless caretaker’s absolute calm was an anomaly he did not appreciate.
"I told you. To get out," Rocco repeated, his deep, raspy voice slicing through the quiet of the suite. "Are you deaf. Or simply stupid?"
"I am neither, Mr. Santoro," June replied softly, not looking up from her task. Her American accent was steady, devoid of the panic he expected. "I was hired to clean and care for this suite. I cannot leave a mess on this beautiful rug. Someone might step on the glass."
"Let them bleed," Rocco said coldly.
Before June could respond, a terrifying, involuntary movement seized Rocco. Suddenly, his right leg jerked violently. The heavy, polished leather shoe slammed against the metal footrest of his wheelchair with a deafening metallic clang.
Rocco let out a sharp, breathless gasp. His powerful, deeply masculine frame instantly locked tight. The muscles in his neck, arms, and chest turned to rigid stone as a catastrophic, blinding wave of neurological pain washed over him. His hands gripped the armrests of his chair so tightly that the metal groaned in protest. He could not breathe. He could not speak. The agony was an absolute, all-consuming fire.
The heavy mahogany doors of the suite clicked open.
Lucia Santoro stood in the doorway, framed perfectly by the bright, cinematic light of the hallway. At forty-one years old, Rocco’s cousin and a senior member of the Mafia family radiated an aristocratic, venomous elegance. She wore a stunning formal outfit tailored to perfection, her fair, rosy skin adorned with brilliant diamond jewelry, heavy rings, and towering designer heels. Her American accent carried an air of absolute superiority.
She stepped into the room, her cold eyes sweeping over the shattered porcelain, the kneeling maid, and her paralyzed, suffering cousin. A cruel, mocking smile spread slowly across her lips.
Lucia walked elegantly across the Persian rug, her heels clicking sharply. As she passed the low medication cabinet, she noticed a small, amber prescription bottle resting near the edge. With a casual, almost playful flick of her expensive shoe, Lucia kicked Rocco’s medication bottle hard. It skittered rapidly across the floor and vanished deep beneath the heavy wooden cabinet, completely out of reach.
"What are you doing?" June gasped, pausing her cleaning to stare at the elegant woman in sheer disbelief.
"I am managing my family’s affairs," Lucia laughed, the sound bright and devoid of any human empathy. She looked down at June as if she were a piece of dirt on her shoe. "Ignore him, my dear. He is just seeking attention. He does this whenever he feels his power slipping."
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"He is in agonizing pain!" June protested, her voice rising in defensive shock as she watched Rocco struggle to draw a single breath, his face turning pale with the spasm.
"I said, ignore him," Lucia commanded, her smile vanishing into a look of terrifying, absolute authority. "Pick up your broken dishes and leave this room. Otherwise, you’ll be fired before the hour is up."
