Chapter 2
The continuous, muted clatter of silver cutlery against porcelain plates with gold rims provided a rhythmic backdrop to the elegant dinner party. Nora approached the space between Alexander and his four-year-old son, Oliver. The little boy sat quietly in his velvet dining chair, dressed in a formal shirt, a small vest, and tailored trousers. Oliver’s mother had died when he was an infant, and Nora had been his daily caregiver, his sole source of maternal warmth in a cold, calculating empire.
Nora stepped into the bright, clear lighting beside the master of the house. The soft, elegant warmth of the ivory candles burning in ornate brass candelabras did nothing to chase away the deep, bone-chilling cold radiating from her core. She reached out, attempting to carefully lower the small vase of roses onto the table near Alexander’s setting.
Her trembling fingers betrayed her. As the base of the vase made contact with the polished mahogany surface, it began to rattle loudly, the porcelain vibrating against the wood in a frantic, uncontrollable staccato.
The sound was sharp, cutting cleanly through the sophisticated hum of the crowded dinner party.
Oliver immediately turned his head. The young boy’s fair, rosy face filled with sudden, intense anxiety as he noticed his beloved caregiver shivering so violently. Feeling a crushing, silent guilt, Oliver slowly drew his own small hands off the table, hiding them deep in his lap as his lower lip began to quiver.
Alexander did not flinch at the sudden noise. Without looking away from the center of the room, he moved his hand. The tattooed, powerful fingers of the Mafia boss reached out and firmly grasped the base of the rattling vase, steadying it perfectly against the mahogany without ever physically touching Nora’s trembling, ice-cold hand.
The rattling ceased.
Alexander slowly turned his head. His cold, perceptive eyes traveled up the slim fitted silhouette of the maid's uniform, past the neatly tied white apron, until they locked directly onto Nora’s expressive, frightened eyes. The golden light caught the loose strands of hair falling over his forehead, making his intense stare even more arresting.
“Nora,” Alexander said, his deep, low voice vibrating through the immediate space.
The entire room seemed to hold its breath. Every single guest at the massive, crowded table stopped eating. The melodic hum of conversation vanished completely. Men in expensive suits and women in satin gowns turned their heads, their attention pulled inexorably toward the head of the table.
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“Why are you shaking?” Alexander asked.
The question hung in the bright, luminous air, heavy with unspoken danger. The atmosphere in the room shifted instantly from an elegant celebration to an impending execution. Nora swallowed hard, her breath visible for a fraction of a second in the warm room due to the sheer cold trapped in her lungs. Before she could answer, Alexander’s perceptive gaze briefly followed Nora’s frantic, frightened glance across the table—a look directed squarely at Vivienne Shaw.
