Chapter 4
The opulent grand salon was suffocatingly quiet. The ivory candles burning in their glass hurricane holders seemed to cast harsh, judgmental shadows over Camille’s emerald velvet gown. The affectionate public smile that usually charmed the syndicate members had completely evaporated, leaving behind a feral mask of desperation and cornered panic.
Camille’s smile stiffened into a grotesque, brittle line. Her fair, rosy skin paled as she realized her meticulously crafted lie had just been exposed in front of the entire criminal empire. Desperate to regain control, she reacted with blind, aristocratic arrogance, assuming her authority still held weight.
Without looking at Damon, Camille pointed sharply toward the empty stroller. Her diamond earrings swung violently.
"Back in the stroller," Camille commanded, her voice dropping into a cold, ruthless tone that echoed off the gilded mirrors. "Now."
The sheer audacity of the command, delivered in the presence of the mafia boss, was staggering. She believed her status as the daughter of a powerful allied family made her completely immune to the consequences of her actions.
Damon 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. He moved with preternatural speed, his tailored dark three-piece suit cutting a formidable silhouette through the warm golden light.
He stepped smoothly into the space beside Leo and Elise. He deliberately placed his broad, masculine body directly between Camille and his three-year-old son. It was a physical shield, an unmistakable declaration of absolute protection that stripped away Camille's authority in a single, fluid movement.
Damon did not look at his fiancée. He watched Leo standing steadily beside Elise, observing the child's perfectly healed ankle and the absolute terror in his round, rosy cheeks. The realization that his son had been subjected to psychological torture under his own roof burned through his veins like acid.
Then, Damon turned his head and met Elise’s gaze.
He saw the dark, puffy shadows of exhaustion under her clear, expressive eyes, the loose strands of hair framing her face, and the terrified, trembling rise and fall of her chest.
Damon’s sharp, angular jaw tightened, the muscles ticking beneath his extremely short stubble. Every guest fell entirely silent, turning toward the mafia boss. The air grew freezing cold despite the warmth of the ivory candles.
"Elise," Damon said quietly. His deep, measured voice carried a lethal, apocalyptic authority that shook the very foundation of the room. He allowed a terrifying pause to stretch out before finishing his question. "How long?"
The question hung in the bright, luminous air, demanding an answer that would dictate the survival of everyone standing near the tree. The entire syndicate was staring at the housemaid. Capos shifted uncomfortably on the burgundy velvet sofas. No one dared to breathe too loudly.
Elise felt the crushing weight of fifty gazes, but the only eyes that mattered were the ones burning into hers. The mafia boss’s dark, intense stare was demanding absolute honesty. She knew that answering this question could easily seal her death warrant if the boss chose to believe his high-society fiancée over a disheveled servant.
Tears gathered heavily along Elise’s lower eyelids, making her highly expressive eyes shine brilliantly in the golden light. She steadied a trembling breath, her chest rising and falling rapidly against her rumpled white apron.
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She faced Damon, drawing on a well of courage she didn't know she possessed. Her voice was incredibly quiet, yet it carried a devastating, undeniable truth that sliced through the silent room.
"Weeks," Elise answered, her voice unwavering. "Camille said you’d abandon him."
