Chapter 2
Across the expansive, brightly lit ballroom, Roman D’Angelo was fully in his element. At fifty-five years old, he possessed a deeply masculine, overwhelmingly powerful presence that commanded the entire room without a single spoken word. He was the undisputed veteran Mafia Boss of the organization. He wore a tailored dark three-piece suit that fit his broad shoulders perfectly, a crisp white dress shirt, a heavy gold signet ring, and a luxury wristwatch. His polished leather shoes clicked with measured authority as he greeted high-profile donors.
But Roman’s cold, sharp, intimidating eyes missed absolutely nothing in his territory.
Through the shifting crowd of formal gowns and expensive suits, he caught a glimpse of a disturbance near the entrance. He saw the modest beige coat, the torn, filthy clothing of a small child, and the unmistakable, aggressive posture of his mother. The sheer visual contrast of a child in rags standing inside his impenetrable fortress demanded his immediate attention.
"Excuse me for a moment," Roman murmured to the capo he was speaking with. His voice was deep, slightly raspy, and naturally authoritative.
He moved across the ballroom with the terrifying, predatory grace of a veteran warlord. The wealthy guests instinctively parted for him, dropping their eyes in respect to his fair, rosy face. As he cleared the last group of donors, he stopped dead in his tracks. The bright, cinematic lighting illuminated the scene with painful, agonizing clarity. He saw his mother standing aggressively over a young woman whose face was stained with desperate tears.
And then, his cold eyes fell upon the child.
Sophie was crying softly, rubbing her small arm where Helena had grabbed her. The three-year-old looked up, her tear-filled blue eyes scanning the room for an escape, only to land squarely on the towering, masculine man standing just a few feet away.
Sophie stared at him. The little girl’s breath hitched in her throat, her bright eyes widening in absolute, paralyzing disbelief.
Roman froze entirely. His heart slammed against his ribs, a sudden, suffocating pressure seizing his chest. The resemblance was undeniable; she had his exact eyes, his fair skin, his facial structure. But he had been told for years that this child did not exist.
"Daddy?" Sophie asked. Her tiny voice cracked, sobbing through her tears, speaking between ragged hiccups. "Grandma said you were dead."
The words echoed in the space between them, freezing the blood in Roman's veins. He stared at the three-year-old girl, the daughter he had been told was lost to a tragic, unavoidable miscarriage, the daughter he had mourned in utter, devastating silence while building his empire.
"What did you say?" Roman whispered, his deep voice barely audible over the ambient hum of the gala, yet carrying a weight that made the nearest bodyguards stiffen.
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Nora looked up at the sound of his deep voice. Her eyes locked onto Roman. She was equally stunned, her beautiful face shifting rapidly from terror to sheer, unadulterated shock. She looked from Roman's living, breathing form to the horrified, pale face of Helena D'Angelo.
"You're alive," Nora gasped, her entire body shaking as the catastrophic, impossible deception finally unraveled before her very eyes. "She told me you were killed in a crossfire three years ago."
