Chapter 5
The metallic scrape was a sound that did not belong in a luxurious salon on Christmas Eve. It was a sound that belonged in a dungeon.
Roman Ashford stopped moving entirely. His broad shoulders went rigid beneath his tailored dark three-piece suit. He looked at his son, processing the cheerful, innocent exclamation. Then, his dark, observant eyes shifted to the white cuff of the housemaid's sleeve.
He heard the lie spoken by his fiancée. He saw the panicked, delayed smile on Camille's face.
The realization of the absolute, humiliating violence that had occurred in his home cemented itself in his calculating mind.
Roman moved with absolute, predatory grace. He closed the distance across the marble floor in a single, fluid stride. He stepped directly beside Mara, his imposing frame casting a protective shadow over the mahogany wrapping table.
The effect on the room was instantaneous and absolute. The sheer, commanding presence of the mafia boss stripped away the festive atmosphere of the Christmas reception in a heartbeat.
Every single guest at the grand salon stopped eating and speaking. Champagne flutes were lowered slowly back to silver trays. The polite, affluent conversation died entirely in their throats, replaced by a suffocating, terrified vacuum. Fifty faces turned toward the wrapping table, their fair skin paling as they watched Roman Ashford.
Roman did not yell. He did not explode. The absolute stillness of his muscular, masculine frame was infinitely more dangerous than any outburst of rage.
He reached down with his artistically tattooed hand, the heavy signet ring gleaming under the chandelier light. With immense, quiet authority, Roman gently took hold of Mara's left arm.
He smoothly drew back the rumpled white cuff of her sleeve.
The festive red ribbon and the small brass bell fell away, revealing the brutal truth beneath. A heavy, industrial steel cuff was locked tightly around her delicate, bruised wrist. The thick steel chain trailed downward, padlocked securely to the fixed brass rail of the table.
A collective, quiet gasp rippled through the elite guests standing near the velvet sofas. The sheer, audacious malice of chaining a woman to a table like an animal was shocking even to seasoned syndicate members who dealt in violence daily.
Roman stared at the steel cuff. The realization of what had been done to the woman sitting before him ignited a cold, unyielding fury in his chest.
He did not look at his fiancée. He looked directly at Mara.
"Mara," Roman said, his deep, quiet voice echoing loudly in the dead-silent room.
May you like
He paused, a measured, agonizing silence that hung in the bright air like an executioner's blade. He kept his cold, unwavering gaze locked entirely on the broken, exhausted housemaid.
"Who locked this?" Roman asked.
