Chapter 2
The dining hall hummed with the sophisticated chatter of the elite, but near the head table, the atmosphere felt unnaturally tight. Della held the heavy crystal water pitcher with both hands, her gaze fixed entirely on the gold-rimmed glassware. She was terrified. Earlier that afternoon, Beatrice had shoved her hard against the marble staircase railing in a fit of manufactured rage. Della had managed to catch herself, but the impact had left a deep, throbbing bruise encircling her delicate wrist. Frightened of further punishment from the future lady of the house, she had desperately tried to conceal the injury beneath her crisp white cuffs.
As Della carefully tipped the pitcher over Ronan’s glass, the weight of the crystal caused the stiff white fabric of her sleeve to slide backward.
For a fraction of a second, the warm, golden light of the chandeliers illuminated the angry, mottled purple and black bruising that marred her fair, rosy skin.
Ronan, whose cold, perceptive eyes missed absolutely nothing in his domain, noticed her guarded, wincing movement. His sharp gaze locked onto the exposed bruise. The fluid motion of his tattooed hand stopped midway to his wine glass. He stared at the violent mark on the beautiful housemaid’s wrist, his angular jawline clenching tight.
Beatrice, ever hyper-aware of Ronan’s attention, followed his gaze. She saw the exposed bruise and immediately met Ronan’s eyes, offering a small, dismissive smile designed to project absolute innocence.
"She fell on the stairs," Beatrice said.
Her American accent was light and breezy, presenting the cruelty as a mere consequence of a servant's clumsiness. She smoothed the satin of her sculpted evening gown, waiting for him to accept the lie and move on with the celebration.
Ronan did not look at Beatrice. He slowly lifted his head, turning his broad, powerful shoulders slightly as he met Della’s gaze from beside the table.
"Della. Did you fall?" Ronan asked.
His question was quiet, delivered with a controlled, agonizing pause after her name. The sheer, commanding authority in his deep voice sliced through the ambient noise of the room. Instantly, every single guest at the adjacent tables stopped eating and speaking. Forks hovered motionless over fine porcelain. Crystal stemware was lowered to the polished walnut tables. Thirty pairs of eyes turned toward the head of the room, watching the mafia boss direct his terrifying focus onto a servant.
Della froze, the water pitcher trembling in her hands. She tried to hold his intense, perceptive eyes, but the terror was overwhelming. Her fingers curled tightly against her white apron, seeking an anchor in the sudden, deafening silence.
Her inner brows lifted helplessly. Moisture gathered rapidly along her lower eyelids, making her expressive eyes shine brilliantly under the cascading light. Her full, natural lower lip trembled slightly as she fought a losing battle against her fear. She knew the power Beatrice wielded, but looking into Ronan's eyes, she knew lying to him would be far worse.
Still looking directly at Ronan, Della answered in a fragile, broken voice.
May you like
"She pushed me."
The confession hung in the bright, luminous air, freezing the warm atmosphere into solid ice. The guests held their collective breath, their fair, rosy faces paling in shock as they stared at the housemaid who had just publicly accused the future bride of a mafia king.
