Chapter 2
The heavy silk curtains framing the tall windows seemed to absorb the suffocating tension radiating from Lydia as she reached the head table. Her footsteps, usually silent and graceful, were unsteady on the thick Persian rug. Every step sent a flare of dull, deep pain through her lower back and abdomen.
"Ensure the boss's plate is set exactly at the center of the setting, Lydia," the head butler murmured as she passed him, entirely oblivious to her fragile physical state.
"I will take care of it," Lydia whispered, her American accent weak and breathy.
Lydia stepped deliberately beside Adrian’s right shoulder, acutely aware of his imposing proximity. The scent of his expensive cologne—a dark blend of cedar and spice—washed over her, nearly bringing her to tears. She carefully set the silver tray onto a nearby serving stand and retrieved Adrian's gold-rimmed plate.
She leaned forward to place the porcelain plate before him. As she did, a sharp, agonizing cramp seized her lower abdomen.
Lydia gasped softly. She pressed her free hand firmly against the cinched waist of her black maid dress, pushing against her lower abdomen. She paused in the middle of the service, closing her eyes tightly to steady her rapid, uneven breathing, trying desperately not to collapse in front of the entire syndicate.
Adrian, whose cold, observant eyes missed absolutely nothing in his domain, instantly noticed the terrifying shift in her posture. He watched the way her delicate fingers dug into her apron, and he saw the sheer, unadulterated pain draining the rosy color from her cheekbones.
The mafia boss did not move frantically. The absolute stillness of his muscular, masculine frame was infinitely more dangerous. He turned his head slowly. He locked his gaze directly into Lydia’s expressive, agonized eyes.
"Lydia. Are you hurt?"
Adrian’s voice was deep, quiet, and incredibly deliberate. He spoke exclusively in questions, a chilling linguistic habit that demanded absolute truth. He allowed a measured, agonizing pause after her name. The sheer, commanding authority in his tone sliced through the ambient chatter of the room like a straight razor.
The effect was instantaneous and absolute. Every single dinner guest at the polished walnut tables stopped eating and speaking. Forks hovered motionless over fine porcelain. Crystal wine glasses were lowered slowly. Dozens of fair, rosy-cheeked faces turned toward the head of the room, watching the mafia boss direct his terrifying, unbroken focus onto the housemaid.
Lucinda, sitting in her champagne velvet chair, stiffened. The golden light caught the sudden pallor of her fair skin. She immediately leaned forward, addressing Adrian with a faint, reassuring half-smile that did not quite reach her eyes.
"Just a fall, darling," Lucinda stated, her American accent dripping with casual dismissiveness.
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Her eyes frantically searched Adrian’s angular expression, silently urging him to play along and not cause a scene in front of their powerful guests. She needed him to turn his attention away from the trembling maid. Her eyes briefly avoided Lydia before returning to Adrian, struggling to maintain the polished facade.
After speaking the lie, Lucinda shifted her gaze. She shot Lydia a sharp, venomous warning glance—a silent, terrifying command promising severe retribution if the housemaid dared to contradict her narrative.
