Chapter 2
The bright, cinematic lighting of the portrait hall seemed to sharpen as Roman approached the corner. The cheerful, polite conversations of his relatives faded into a dull hum in his ears. Maisie was shaking, her small shoulders rising and falling with suppressed, panicked sobs.
"Maisie," Roman said softly, crouching down in front of her. His tailored trousers pulled taut over his knees, and his polished leather shoes creaked slightly. He kept his hands visible, the sharp, artistic tattoos on his fingers resting gently on her small knees. "Look at me... sweetheart."
Maisie flinched, her tiny hands reaching up to press the oversized sunglasses tighter against her face. "I tripped, Daddy," she whispered, her American accent trembling with fear. "I just tripped on the stairs."
Roman did not believe her for a fraction of a second. The child was terrified.
"You do not... wear sunglasses... inside the house," Roman murmured, his voice infinitely gentle yet completely uncompromising. "Let me... see your face."
He reached out, his large, tattooed hands dwarfing her small head, and carefully pulled the dark lenses away.
The breath caught in Roman's throat. His cold, sharp eyes widened infinitesimally. One of Maisie’s fair, rosy eyes was brutally swollen, the delicate skin bruised an angry, mottled purple. Above her brow, a small, square gauze pad had been hastily taped to her skin. Through the center of the white gauze, a small, non-graphic dark red stain of blood was clearly visible.
Before Roman could even process the violence inflicted upon his child, a shadow fell over them.
Lorraine Valenti, Roman’s sixty-six-year-old mother and the formidable former matriarch of the family, stepped into the light. She wore a breathtakingly expensive, deep emerald formal gown, heavy pearl jewelry, and sharp heels. Her fair skin was heavily powdered, and her expression was one of cold, aristocratic annoyance.
"She was running where she shouldn't have been running," Lorraine stated, waving a heavily ringed hand in the air.
Roman did not look up immediately. He gently touched the edge of Maisie's uninjured cheek, his jaw clenching so tightly the muscle ticked visibly.
"Who applied... this gauze?" Roman asked, his volume terrifyingly low.
"I had one of the maids do it in the powder room," Lorraine replied, shifting her weight impatiently. Her American accent dripped with entitled disdain. "It is nothing, Roman. Do not make a scene in front of the capos."
Roman slowly stood up to his full, imposing height. He towered over his mother, his broad shoulders blocking the bright studio lights.
"My daughter... is bleeding," Roman said, every word separated by a lethal, controlled pause. "And you... put sunglasses on her... to hide it."
"A little accident," Lorraine said dismissively, rolling her eyes as she adjusted her pearl necklace. "Don’t ruin the party over it. The photographer is waiting, and we have a schedule to keep."
"The schedule... is dead," Roman whispered, his cold eyes burning into his mother. "Someone put their hands... on my child."
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"Oh, for heaven's sake, Roman," Lorraine scoffed, crossing her arms. "She is a clumsy child. She fell against the banister. End of discussion."
Roman’s hands curled into tight fists at his sides. He knew his mother was lying. He could see the pulse jumping in her fair, wrinkled throat. The question was no longer what happened, but who was arrogant enough to cover it up in his own house.
