Chapter 2
The vast ballroom seemed to lose all air. Four hundred guests froze with crystal flutes suspended mid-air, the string quartet faltering before trailing off into complete, terrified silence.
Rocco did not raise his voice. He stood with his feet planted firmly on the limestone, his imposing frame shielding the boy completely. His thumb stroked the back of Noah’s trembling neck with an infinitely gentle touch, while his cold, slate-gray eyes pinned Victoria where she stumbled backward.
From the service corridor, forty-year-old Maria Collins rushed forward, her white housekeeper apron rustling against her navy uniform. Her fair, rosy face was flushed with frantic concern as she pulled a velvet pouch from her pocket—Noah’s backup hearing aid.
“Don Rocco, let me take him,” Maria whispered, her hands shaking as she reached out. “I have the spare right here—”
Victoria rounded on the maid with sudden, unhinged fury. “Stay out of this, you domestic servant!”
Victoria drove two hands violently into Maria’s chest, shoving the housekeeper back into the floral display. Vases rattled; white orchid petals rained over the tablecloths.
Driven by manic panic, Victoria lunged straight toward Noah, her manicured fingers clawing through the air. “Give me that boy, Rocco! He’s lying! He’s a deceitful little brat trying to ruin our engagement!”
She never reached the child.
Rocco’s left hand caught Victoria’s right arm mid-air; his right hand seized her left. With a single, explosive twist of his powerful shoulders, Rocco hurled the thirty-year-old woman clean across the aisle.
Victoria flew through the air, her emerald silk gown tearing at the hem, crashing full-weight onto an empty velvet reception sofa. The heavy furniture skidded two feet across the limestone floor before thudding against the wall.
Victoria gasped, coughing as the breath was knocked from her lungs, her styled blonde hair spilling over her bruised shoulders.
Before a single guest could murmur, the heavy click of leather soles echoed from the VIP alcove.
Six of Rocco’s personal bodyguards stepped forward in synchronized, disciplined motion. They did not look at Victoria. They did not look at the stunned patrons. In an iron perimeter, they completely surrounded Marcus Caruso.
Marcus, forty-five years old and Rocco’s most influential capo, stood rigid near the champagne tower. His tailored charcoal suit pulled tight across broad shoulders, his heavy gold family ring glinting under the chandelier. His fair, weathered face went completely pale, his hands slowly rising away from his waistband as four suppressed pistols were leveled directly at his ribs.
Rocco didn't look at his cousin yet. He shifted Noah gently to his left arm, keeping the boy pressed safely against his chest, shielding him from the wreckage of the room.
Rocco took three slow, measured steps toward the sofa. He looked down at Victoria, who was clutching her wrist and weeping in cornered terror.
His voice was dead calm—a deep, raspy whisper that carried the terrifying weight of an executioner's bell.
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"Now, let's talk about what she heard," Rocco murmured, each pause between his words chilling the air. "What scared you, Victoria?"
Victoria looked up from the velvet cushions, her fair face draining of every drop of color as sheer, unadulterated dread settled into her eyes.
