Chapter 3
The ringing silence in the grand ballroom was profound, broken only by the heartbreaking, ragged sobs of the six-year-old girl on the floor. At the head of the primary dining table, Nico Bellandi had been seated the entire time.
He did not gasp. He did not shout. The transition from a sophisticated, observant host to an absolute, terrifying predator was instantaneous and lethal.
Nico slowly rose from his heavy oak chair.
The deeply masculine, overwhelmingly intimidating presence of the Mafia boss seemed to suck the oxygen entirely out of the massive room. The dark fabric of his tailored three-piece suit shifted as he stepped away from the table. He did not run toward his sister; running was for men who panicked. Nico walked with a slow, deliberate, and terrifying grace. His polished leather shoes struck the marble floor with a heavy, rhythmic echo that sounded like the ticking of a doomsday clock.
Rafe Calder, standing nearby, immediately unbuttoned his suit jacket, his hand drifting toward his concealed weapon, recognizing the apocalyptic rage radiating from his boss.
"Nico, she was being disrespectful," Marcella stammered, her toxic arrogance finally faltering as she saw her brother approaching. Her fair, rosy skin lost a fraction of its color. "She tried to ruin the aesthetic of the photographs. I was simply disciplining her."
Nico didn't even look at Marcella. His cold, intimidating eyes were locked entirely on his daughter.
Vivia pushed herself up onto her hands and knees. Her beautiful, rosy face was streaked with tears and marred by the angry red welt on her cheek. Seeing her father approaching, the little girl scrambled forward.
She crawled across the cold marble floor, dragging the old, tattered dress with her. She reached Nico and immediately gripped the fabric of his tailored trouser leg with desperate, white-knuckled intensity.
"I'm sorry, Daddy," Vivia sobbed, burying her face into his leg, her tiny frame shaking violently.
Nico stopped. He dropped to one knee, completely disregarding the expensive fabric of his suit. With profound, heartbreaking tenderness that starkly contrasted his lethal reputation, he gathered his weeping daughter into his powerful arms.
"You have nothing to be sorry for, piccola mia," Nico murmured. His deep voice was a low, steady rumble of absolute, protective love. "I've got you. Daddy is right here."
"I just wanted to wear her dress," Vivia cried, her American accent cracking with breathless hiccups. She clutched the faded fabric of the old dress tightly against her chest, looking up into her father's eyes with sheer, desperate panic.
“Mom said never let them take this dress,” Vivia sobbed, repeating a frantic, desperate warning from a woman who had died under mysterious circumstances two years prior.
May you like
The words struck Nico like a physical blow to the chest. He froze, his sharply defined jawline clenching so tightly that the muscles twitched visibly beneath his skin. The air around him turned to solid ice. He gently stroked the back of his daughter's head, pulling her securely behind the broad, impenetrable wall of his back.
"Nobody is going to take it," Nico promised, his voice dropping into a register of pure, concentrated danger. He slowly turned his head, his dark, piercing eyes finally locking onto the woman in the wedding gown.
