Chapter 2
Marcus Hale strode confidently across the sunlit Persian rug, his polished leather shoes making no sound. He reached the heavy double doors of the breakfast room and, with a dismissive flick of his wrist, pushed them shut. The latch clicked into place, but Emma had anticipated the movement. She had quietly wedged the tip of her low, rubber-soled shoe against the doorframe, leaving a gap just wide enough for the camera lens of her smartphone to maintain a clear line of sight.
Inside the room, the psychological torment continued unabated.
"You see, Lucy," Bianca said, her tone mockingly gentle as she released the child's head and crossed her arms over her champagne-colored silk blouse. "Your father and I are getting married. That means this house, these rules, and your future belong to me. If you want to survive here, you will do exactly as I say."
"I want my Daddy," Lucy cried softly, wrapping her small arms around herself. Her cream knitted cardigan offered little comfort against the cold reality of the room. "I want my Daddy right now."
Marcus laughed again, moving to stand beside Bianca. "Your father is a very powerful man, Lucy. Men like Vittorio Moretti don't have time for crying little girls. He told us to discipline you, and that's what we're doing."
"That's a lie!" Lucy sobbed, looking at the stainless-steel bowl filled with dry cereal. "Daddy loves me!"
"Love is a weakness in his line of work," Bianca sneered, pointing a perfectly manicured finger at the dog bowl. "Now, get on your hands and knees and eat. Or I will have Marcus lock you in the basement until Vittorio gets back from Chicago tomorrow."
Outside the door, Emma’s hand shook violently. She clamped her free hand over her mouth to stifle a gasp. They think he's in Chicago, Emma thought frantically. They think they have another twenty-four hours to break her.
"Please, Marcus," Bianca sighed, feigning exhaustion. "Make her do it. I can't bear looking at her stubborn face anymore."
"With pleasure," Marcus replied, taking a heavy step toward the trembling four-year-old.
"Don't touch me!" Lucy screamed, shrinking back.
Emma’s finger hovered over the screen, ready to stop the recording and burst into the room to protect the child, regardless of the consequences. She couldn't let Marcus lay a hand on the little girl.
"Come here, you little brat," Marcus growled, reaching down.
But before his hand could make contact with Lucy’s shoulder, the heavy double doors of the breakfast room violently swung open, the wood violently hitting Emma’s shoe and forcing her to step back into the hallway.
The bright morning light of the room spilled out into the corridor, illuminating the tall, broad-shouldered figure that had just silently stepped into the doorway.
Vittorio Moretti stood there.
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He was forty-four, a man whose sharply masculine features and intense, battle-hardened gray eyes commanded absolute obedience. He wore a fitted white dress shirt with the top two buttons left open, dark tailored trousers, and expensive polished black shoes. The sleeves of his shirt were rolled up slightly, revealing the faint, dark ink of subtle tattoos crossing his muscular forearms.
Vittorio did not say a word. He stood perfectly still, his eyes locking onto the scene before him: his weeping daughter on the floor, the stainless-steel dog bowl, and Marcus leaning over her. The temperature in the room seemed to plummet instantly.
