Chapter 2
Moving with seamless, quiet grace toward the head table was Cecily Hart. At twenty-seven, the housemaid possessed a beauty that effortlessly rivaled any movie star in the grand room. She had a softly rounded face, delicate cheekbones, expressive brows, and thick hair arranged impeccably into a loose, low twist. Her slender figure and graceful proportions were highlighted by a sophisticated black maid dress. The uniform featured a cinched waist, a slim fitted silhouette, a short A-line skirt, and a neatly tied white apron, complete with a crisp white collar and cuffs. Elegant and polished, Cecily was the picture of professional servitude.
Walking closely beside her, his small hand gripping the fabric of her black skirt, was Miles Crowne. The seven-year-old boy wore a formal dinner suit with a slightly loosened bow tie and polished shoes. His fair, rosy face was pale, his eyes wide and anxious. Earlier that evening, during the cocktail hour, an argument had erupted between the boy and his future stepmother over a spilled drink. When Adriana had raised her hand to strike the child, Cecily had thrown herself in the path of the blow.
As a result, a faint but unmistakable bruise now marked the soft curve of Cecily’s cheek.
Cecily approached the space directly to the right of Matteo’s chair, carrying a silver tray laden with delicate desserts. She struggled violently to contain her distress, forcing her breathing to remain even so as not to draw the attention of the apex predators occupying the room.
With meticulous care, Cecily reached out and set Matteo’s dessert plate down on the polished walnut table. Her hand trembled slightly, but she quickly pulled it back.
As she did, Miles reached up. The little boy caught Cecily’s fingers in his small hand, refusing to let her walk away. He stayed incredibly close to her side, pressing himself against her white apron. Miles was deeply frightened, consumed by the agonizing guilt that his own protection had caused the beautiful housemaid's injury.
Cecily paused, her expressive brows drawing together in profound empathy. She turned her head slightly toward Miles, offering him a small, desperately reassuring smile in an attempt to calm his frantic heartbeat.
As she turned her head, the cascading golden light from the crystal chandeliers caught the side of her face perfectly.
Matteo Crowne, who missed absolutely nothing, noticed the sudden, protective grip of his son. He watched Cecily turn. And then, his cold, perceptive eyes locked onto the faint, purplish bruise marring her flawless skin.
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Cecily’s small, reassuring smile vanished instantly. She felt the heavy, terrifying weight of the Mafia boss's attention settle upon her. Her breath caught in her throat. She looked down at the little boy, then back up into the terrifying, expectant eyes of the man who ruled the city.
The bright, clear lighting of the room offered no shadows to hide within. The truth of the violence was written plainly on her face, and Matteo Crowne was waiting for the translation.
