Chapter 2
Before a single drop of scalding tea could pour from the spout, a large, masculine hand closed over the porcelain handle, overlapping Simone's fingers. The grip was unyielding, laced with silent, terrifying authority. Callan Ashford took the teapot and forcefully moved it away from Vera, holding it perfectly upright.
Every guest in the immediate vicinity fell dead silent. The sudden quiet rippled outward until the entire reception room was muted. Men in expensive suits and women in glittering gowns turned their heads, their eyes locked on the mafia boss. Callan stood imposing and immaculate in a tailored dark three-piece suit. His broad shoulders blocked the light from the chandeliers, his angular jaw set in stone. He wore his naturally swept-back hair with effortless command, the extremely short stubble on his face giving him a rugged, dangerous edge. The family signet ring gleamed on his finger, and a luxury wristwatch peeked from his cuff. Artistic tattoos utilizing negative space decorated his hands and knuckles, shifting over his muscles as he gripped the teapot. Above his crisp collar, another small, intricate tattoo was just visible on his neck.
Callan ignored Simone entirely. He looked directly at Vera.
"Vera," Callan said quietly, the measured pause in his deep, gravelly voice carrying more weight than a scream. "Again?"
Vera met Callan’s intense, piercing gaze. Her heart hammered wildly against her ribs. She briefly lowered her eyes toward her outstretched, empty hands, the phantom heat of the teapot still hovering over them. She drew in a shaky, trembling breath, desperately trying to steady herself.
"Yesterday," Vera whispered, her voice fragile but clear in the hushed room. "For one broken glass."
Simone’s grip on her emerald gown tightened. Her eyes flicked nervously toward the watching guests, reading their silent judgments, before returning to Callan's rigid profile. A small, defensive smile tightened her painted lips, an attempt to mask her sudden, rising panic.
"Pain makes careless girls remember," Simone said, her tone dripping with false sweetness. "She needed a lesson in good manners, Callan. You can't let the staff walk all over you."
Callan did not look at his fiancée. With deliberate, agonizingly slow movements, he set the heavy porcelain teapot safely onto the tea table. He turned fully toward Vera, extending his large, tattooed hand, offering his open palm to the terrified maid.
Vera hesitated. The entire hierarchy of the Ashford household demanded she step back, apologize, and disappear into the kitchens. But the sheer magnetism of Callan’s presence held her in place. With trembling fingers, she gently placed her small hand into his palm. His grip was warm, protective, and startlingly gentle.
Suddenly, small arms wrapped tightly around Vera’s waist. Jude had run forward, burying his face into Vera’s rumpled apron.
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"It's okay, Mommy. You don't need bandages today," Jude murmured affectionately, squeezing her tight.
Callan remained beside Vera, his large hand enveloping hers. Only then did he turn his head to look at Simone. His stare was cold, unwavering, and utterly lethal. The defensive, haughty smile on Simone’s face slowly disappeared, replaced by a pale, creeping dread as she realized exactly what she had just done.
