Chapter 2
Caleb adjusted his grip on the plastic bat, his small chest heaving with the exertion. "It sounds weird, Brielle. The piñata is making a funny noise."
"Piñatas don't make noise, sweetie," Brielle said, her voice dripping with cruel amusement. "That’s just the wind. Now, swing."
Caleb pulled the bat back again, his muscles tensing for another strike.
Before the plastic weapon could even begin its arc, a massive, heavily tattooed hand closed around the barrel of the bat, stopping it instantly.
Damon Roswell had arrived.
At forty years old, Damon was the undisputed head of the Roswell family, a Mafia boss whose power was absolute. He was deeply masculine, exuding an aura of terrifying intimidation. He was handsome as a movie star, his thick, slightly wavy dark hair slicked back naturally, with a few loose strands falling over his forehead to give him a charming, romantic look that starkly contrasted his lethal nature. His angular face featured a high-bridged nose and a sharply defined jawline, shadowed by extremely short, neatly trimmed stubble. His cold, sharp, intimidating eyes swept over the scene, taking in every horrifying detail. He wore a tailored dark suit, a crisp white shirt, his family signet ring, and polished leather shoes.
"Let go of it," Caleb protested, tugging blindly at the bat.
Damon didn't speak. He effortlessly took the lightweight bat from his son's hands and tossed it onto the grass. With infinite, gentle care, his large fingers reached around the back of Caleb’s head and untied the thick fabric blindfold.
The cloth fell away. Caleb blinked rapidly against the bright cinematic sunlight. His blue eyes focused, slowly adjusting to the scene before him.
He didn't see an animal-shaped piñata.
He saw his six-year-old brother, Micah, bound to the padded support post, weeping uncontrollably.
Caleb’s hands immediately opened, dropping to his sides. His small fingers began to tremble violently as the realization of what he had almost done crashed over him. His fair, rosy skin turned completely pale.
"Micah?" Caleb whispered, his voice cracking with sheer, unadulterated horror. He looked from his brother to his father, tears instantly welling in his eyes. "Dad... I didn't know."
Damon placed a reassuring hand on Caleb’s shoulder, his touch grounding the panicked child.
"I know, Caleb," Damon said. He spoke slowly, with controlled pauses between his words. His deep voice remained low, yet every syllable sounded measured, cold, and immensely dangerous.
May you like
Caleb pointed a shaking finger toward the woman leaning against the wicker loveseat.
"She told me," Caleb cried, his voice breaking with betrayal. "She said it was the piñata."
