Chapter 1
The grand ballroom of the D’Angelo estate was bathed in a brilliant, flawless light. The cinematic illumination was incredibly bright, completely devoid of any dull or yellow tint, casting a pristine white glow over the opulent space. The vivid colors of the luxurious gowns and the dark, tailored tuxedos of the elite guests stood out with striking clarity. The attendees, a collection of powerful white American Mafia associates and high-society donors, mingled effortlessly. Their fair, rosy skin caught the pristine light as they conversed in sharp, standard American accents. It was a gala designed to project absolute wealth, an impenetrable fortress of excess.
But near the towering mahogany entrance doors, that flawless illusion was about to be violently shattered.
Nora Bennett stood shivering in the grand archway. At twenty-five years old, she was breathtakingly beautiful by every American standard of beauty, her fair, rosy complexion framed by cascading hair. Yet, she looked entirely out of place in this room of billionaires. She wore a modest, inexpensive beige coat over a simple white blouse and plain dark trousers, her sensible flats sinking awkwardly into the plush, crimson carpet. Her hands were wrapped protectively, almost desperately, around the tiny shoulders of her three-year-old daughter, Sophie.
The little girl was a heartbreaking sight amidst the staggering opulence. Sophie wore torn, filthy clothes—a faded, stained sweater and frayed leggings that offered little warmth against the autumn chill. Her rosy cheeks were smudged with dirt from the city streets, and her bright blue eyes were wide with overwhelming terror as she stared at the towering, intimidating adults surrounding them.
"Stay close to me, Sophie," Nora whispered, her voice trembling as she scanned the massive, crowded room. "We just need to find someone who will listen."
"It's too loud, Mommy," Sophie murmured, shrinking against her mother’s leg, overwhelmed by the booming laughter and the sheer scale of the estate.
Before Nora could take another step into the vibrant, brightly colored ballroom, a dark shadow blocked their path. Helena D’Angelo materialized from the crowd like a striking viper. At sixty-seven, Roman’s mother was a terrifying vision of matriarchal authority. She wore a luxurious, floor-length emerald formal gown that draped elegantly across the polished marble floor. Heavy pearl jewelry rested against her collarbone, and massive diamond rings adorned her manicured fingers. Her fair face contorted with absolute, vicious fury the moment she laid eyes on the young mother and child.
Helena did not hesitate. She lunged forward, her ringed hand grabbing Sophie’s small, fragile arm with bruising, unapologetic force.
"Hey! Get your hands off her!" Nora shouted, her maternal instinct instantly overriding her paralyzing fear.
With a vicious jerk, Helena forcefully pushed the crying three-year-old backward toward the heavy wooden doors. Nora immediately stepped between them, aggressively pulling Sophie away from the older woman's iron grip and holding the child flush against her modest coat.
Helena straightened her posture, her eyes blazing with cold, aristocratic hatred. She leaned in close, ensuring her words sliced through the air like a razor blade.
"I told you never to come here," Helena hissed, her American accent dripping with unfiltered contempt. "You and this filthy mistake do not belong in this house."
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"We are starving, Helena!" Nora cried back, her voice shaking violently. "We have absolutely nothing left! I don't care about your rules anymore, we need help!"
"You will get nothing," Helena spat, her rosy skin flushing darker with rage. "Now get out, before I have the guards throw you onto the street."
