Chapter 4
The sliding portrait revealed exactly what Sophie had feared: a narrow, heavy wooden dressing-room door secured firmly from the outside by a simple, heavy exterior brass bolt. The visual confirmation of the imprisonment sent a shockwave of horror through the guests standing nearby.
Bianca Drake stepped out from the crowd of elegantly dressed guests, her burgundy velvet gown rustling violently. Her fair, rosy skin was flushed with a sudden, calculated malice. She realized her meticulously crafted lie was unraveling spectacularly in front of the entire syndicate.
Without a word, Bianca lunged forward, reaching aggressively toward Sophie’s wrist to physically stop the maid from touching the brass bolt. The polished public smile was entirely gone, replaced by a mask of feral desperation.
But before Bianca’s manicured fingers could make contact with the gentle maid, a towering, broad-shouldered figure stepped silently into the space between them.
Gideon stepped smoothly between Bianca and Sophie, intercepting the fiancée's path with a physical wall of tailored dark wool. It was an unmistakable declaration of absolute authority that stripped away Bianca's power in a single, fluid movement.
Bianca gasped, stumbling backward slightly as she collided with the sheer, masculine power radiating from Gideon's frame. She looked up, her diamond earrings swinging wildly. She met Gideon’s intense, pitch-black gaze.
Realizing that she was entirely exposed, Bianca forced her facial muscles to comply. Her smile tightened into a brittle, defensive line. She lifted her chin, attempting to project an aura of untouchable aristocratic defiance, believing her family's power could still shield her from his wrath.
"It’s nothing," Bianca stated clearly, her American accent dripping with a manufactured, icy pragmatism as she looked directly at Gideon. She gestured dismissively toward the maid. "Put that back."
She had not offered an explanation; she had merely attempted to issue a command, brushing off the bolted door as a mundane inconvenience.
Gideon did not yell. He did not explode into physical violence. The quiet, deep, controlled manner in which he operated was far more terrifying than any shouted threat. The artistic negative-space tattoos on his hands flexed as he kept his arms at his sides.
A smooth push-in narrowed the focus entirely onto Gideon. He slowly turned his head, looking deliberately from the heavy exterior brass bolt securing the door, directly to Sophie's pale, terrified face.
His sharp, angular jaw tightened, the muscles ticking beneath his extremely short stubble. Every single guest in the luxurious salon fell completely silent and turned toward the mafia boss. The air grew freezing cold despite the warmth of the ivory candles.
May you like
Gideon spoke quietly, his deep voice carrying a lethal, apocalyptic authority that shook the very foundation of the room.
"Sophie," Gideon said softly. "My mother?"
