Chapter 5
The golden light cascaded down the stone steps, revealing the heartbreaking reality of the nightmare.
Seated on the very upper step of the cellar, huddled tightly against the heavy wooden door she had been unable to open, was three-year-old Rosie Hale.
The toddler was shivering violently, her small body curled into a tight ball. She wore her beautiful burgundy velvet dress with the cream collar, but the fabric was covered in dust and cobwebs. Her white knitted tights were scuffed, and her little ankle boots were tucked beneath her. The soft ribbon bow in her hair was crushed. Her round, rosy cheeks were stained with dried tears, her soft curls completely disheveled. She had been sitting in the pitch-black, freezing cellar for hours.
As the hatch opened, Rosie squinted against the blinding, cinematic light of the chandeliers. She looked up, her innocent, terrified eyes searching the faces above her. Her gaze bypassed Faye and locked directly onto the towering, masculine figure of her father.
Rosie reached her small, dust-covered hands up toward him, desperately seeking reassurance.
"Auntie says..." Rosie whispered softly, her tiny voice punctuated with heartbreaking, exhausted toddler pauses. "Daddy no love."
The childish words hit the room with the devastating force of a physical blow. The absolute, unvarnished truth spoken from the mouth of a traumatized toddler was a catastrophic verdict.
"She said Daddy no want Rosie nearby," the little girl finished, her lower lip trembling uncontrollably as fresh tears spilled over her cheeks.
The silence that followed was agonizing. The entire grand salon held its breath. The bright, luminous colors of the room felt suddenly interrogative, exposing the monstrous cruelty that had occurred in the shadows.
Lucian Hale stopped breathing. His jaw tightened instantly, the extremely short stubble on his face bristling with suppressed, explosive violence. The artistic tattoos on his hands flexed as his fists clenched at his sides. He realized in a fraction of a second that the woman he was supposed to marry had not only physically tortured his three-year-old daughter but had engaged in a sadistic campaign of psychological warfare against a toddler.
The realization cemented itself in his calculating mind. The calm, composed host was instantly replaced by the ruthless, cold-blooded king of the syndicate. A dark, absolute void of lethal intent flooded his gaze.
Lucian did not look at his fiancée. He did not look at his capos.
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He dropped immediately to one knee on the polished marble floor, his tailored suit shifting effortlessly over his powerful frame. He reached down into the open hatch, his large hands incredibly gentle as they slipped beneath his daughter's arms.
"I've got you, sweetheart," Lucian murmured, his deep voice softening into a tone of profound, aching tenderness that the mafia syndicate had never heard before. "Daddy is right here."
