Chapter 4
The cinematic, golden light of the chandeliers seemed to sharpen and focus entirely on the space beside the glowing fireplace. Iris tightened her grip on the wicker basket, leaning forward to obey the socialite's command.
Before she could unlatch the lid, a tiny, distinct sound broke through the crackling of the fire.
A faint, high-pitched whimper came directly from inside the basket.
Iris froze, the basket suddenly feeling impossibly heavy. Her clear, expressive eyes widened in absolute terror.
At that exact moment, three-year-old Milo stepped perfectly into the medium wide space, having followed Iris from the hallway. The little boy in the cream knitted sweater moved with bright, innocent determination. He completely ignored the towering, intimidating presence of his future stepmother.
Milo pointed a tiny, chubby finger directly toward the lid of the wicker basket. He looked up at Celeste, his innocent, rosy face contorted with genuine concern.
"Auntie," Milo announced, his voice carrying the clear, flawless honesty of a child. "Puppies aren't firewood!"
The childish, clear American accent sliced through the ambient noise of the reception with the devastating force of a detonating bomb.
Simultaneously, Damon Rowe arrived.
The mafia boss had been walking rapidly toward the fireplace to check on his son, stepping perfectly into the scene just as the toddler spoke those devastating words.
Damon did not hesitate. His reaction was deliberate, fueled by a cold, terrifying, protective adrenaline. He immediately intercepted Iris. He grabbed the handle of the lidded wicker basket, his large, tattooed hand covering hers, and forcefully pulled it away from the roaring flames.
With immense, quiet authority, Damon placed the basket onto a clear, sturdy walnut console sitting safely away from the fire.
The physical intervention was profound. 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 standing near the evergreen garlands stopped eating and speaking. Champagne flutes were lowered slowly back to polished walnut consoles. The polite, affluent conversation died entirely in their throats, replaced by a suffocating, terrified vacuum. Fifty faces turned toward the fireplace, their fair skin paling as they watched Damon Rowe.
Damon stopped moving entirely. His entire body went rigid beneath his tailored dark three-piece suit. He looked at the wicker basket, processing the innocent, devastating words of his son.
May you like
He moved with absolute, predatory grace. Damon lifted the lid of the basket and drew aside a heavy linen cloth that had been stuffed inside.
Ten-week-old Buttons, the small male spaniel puppy, looked up at him with floppy ears and soft fur, entirely alert and uninjured, but shivering from the dark confinement.
