Chapter 2
The bright, vivid colors of the garden seemed to freeze as the heavy, ominous sound of polished leather shoes approached the pavilion. Damon Roswell, the forty-year-old head of the Roswell family, strode across the pristine lawn. He was a man of terrifying, deeply masculine power, exuding the intimidating aura of a veteran Mafia boss. His tailored suit fit his broad shoulders flawlessly, a crisp shirt resting beneath it. A heavy gold family signet ring gleamed on his hand, and a luxury wristwatch caught the brilliant cinematic light.
His fair, rosy skin was set into a mask of cold, hard granite as he took in the scene. He had heard his older son's cry from the main terrace.
"I don't want to hit the piñata anymore," Caleb cried, his tiny hands shaking as he raised the bat for another swing. "It sounds like Micah!"
"I told you to swing the bat, Caleb," Brielle ordered, her tone dropping its sweet facade, revealing a sharp, commanding edge. "Do not disobey me."
Before the toddler could propel the bat forward, a massive, powerful hand clamped around the plastic barrel. Damon caught the bat effortlessly, halting Caleb’s movement with absolute, immovable force. The air in the pavilion instantly grew suffocatingly dense.
"What is going on here?" Damon’s deep, controlled voice resonated through the space, vibrating with a suppressed, lethal fury.
Brielle gasped, spinning around. Her rosy cheeks flushed a deep, panicked crimson. "Damon! Darling, you startled me. We were just—"
Damon did not even look at her. He forcefully tore the bat from Caleb’s grip and tossed it onto the lush green grass. With astonishing gentleness that completely contradicted his brutal reputation, he reached down and pulled the fabric blindfold off his three-year-old son’s eyes.
The bright, natural sunlight flooded Caleb’s vision. The toddler blinked rapidly, his eyes adjusting to the brilliant colors of the pavilion. When his vision cleared, he did not see the untouched, animal-shaped piñata that was hanging harmlessly several feet away. Instead, he saw his six-year-old brother, Micah, bound to the padded post, weeping and shaking in terror.
Caleb’s tiny hands immediately opened, dropping to his sides as they began to tremble violently. The realization of what he had almost done crashed down upon the innocent child.
"She said it was the piñata," Caleb whispered, his voice saturated with absolute horror. He looked up at his father, tears spilling over his fair cheeks. "Daddy, she said it was the piñata. I didn't know."
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"I know, son," Damon murmured, his deep voice thick with a protective, paternal warmth that was reserved only for his blood. "I know you didn't."
Damon slowly turned his head to look at Brielle. His dark eyes were devoid of any affection. They were the eyes of a man calculating the exact measure of retribution required for a treasonous act.
