Chapter 2
The ambient noise of the banquet—the clinking of gold-rimmed porcelain, the low hum of dangerous men discussing millions of dollars, the soft holiday music playing in the background—felt suffocating to Vera. She navigated the narrow spaces between the velvet dining chairs, her flat shoes making absolutely no sound against the marble floor. Her heart hammered a frantic rhythm against her ribs. Every time her gaze accidentally brushed past Delia Cross, a fresh wave of cold terror washed over her. Delia was smiling at a senator's wife, sipping champagne, acting as though she hadn't attempted to commit murder just hours prior.
Vera reached the head of the table. She kept her eyes lowered, focusing entirely on the task at hand to keep her hands from visibly shaking. She stepped beside Elias, the scent of his expensive cologne mixing with the evergreen garlands draped across the room. With careful, practiced movements, she lifted a delicate dessert plate from her tray and placed it precisely beside his crystal glass.
"Thank you, Vera," Elias murmured, his deep, controlled voice a stark contrast to the lively chatter around them.
"You are welcome, sir," she whispered, stepping back slightly to give him space.
Noah, sitting just to the right of his father, shifted in his chair. The six-year-old boy had been unusually quiet all evening, his small face pale and serious. He had been standing on the second-floor landing that afternoon. He had seen everything. He had seen the vicious shove, his beloved maid dangling over the precipice, and his future stepmother walking away with a cold, satisfied smirk.
Noah slid off his velvet chair, his small navy suit wrinkling slightly. He walked around his father's chair and stepped directly in front of Vera.
Vera looked down, her expressive eyes widening in surprise as the boy approached her while she was serving. "Noah? You should be in your seat, sweetie," she whispered frantically, glancing nervously toward Delia and Elias.
Noah didn't retreat. He looked directly up at Vera, his eyes shining with a quiet, unconditional affection that shattered the strict, professional boundaries of the mafia household. He slowly raised his small hands, revealing what he had been hiding under the table.
It was a tiny, beautifully crafted red knitted Christmas stocking. It was far too small for a child his age, meant instead to hang on a tree or be given to an infant.
He offered it to Vera, holding it out with unwavering determination.
"Mommy, a stocking for the baby," Noah said.
His voice was not loud, but in the specific acoustic space of the head table, it rang with the clarity of a silver bell.
The immediate vicinity froze. The capo mid-sentence stopped talking. The senator's wife halted her glass halfway to her mouth.
Elias Mercer’s movements ceased entirely. His broad shoulders went rigid beneath his tailored suit. The artistic tattoos on his hands became perfectly still. He slowly turned his head, his gaze dropping first to the tiny red stocking in his son's hands, and then tracking upward.
Elias looked briefly toward Vera’s abdomen. The fitted black maid dress and the thick white apron did their best to conceal the slight curve of her three-month pregnancy, but knowing what to look for, the evidence was there.
Slowly, deliberately, Elias raised his head and met Vera’s expressive, terrified eyes.
May you like
The sudden, absolute tension radiating from the boss infected the room instantly. Like a ripple across a dark pond, the silence spread. Every single dinner guest at the long banquet table stopped eating. They stopped speaking. Dozens of powerful men and women turned their heads in unison, their attention snapping entirely toward Elias.
"Vera," Elias said. His deep voice dropped an octave, resonating with a terrifying, calm authority that commanded the room. He allowed a natural, agonizing pause to stretch between them. "Is the baby mine?"
