Chapter 2 - The Heavy Footsteps
The silence that followed Lucinda's cruel demand was absolute, stretched so thin it felt ready to snap. Margaret kept her mouth firmly shut, her blue eyes locked onto the emerald-clad woman tormenting her. Lucinda let out a dark, mocking laugh, pressing the cold silver spoon closer, intending to force it against the old woman's lips. She felt entirely untouchable. In her mind, the Vescari empire was already hers. Damian was blinded by her beauty, the soldiers followed her orders when he was away, and this pathetic old woman was the only remaining stain on her perfect, luxurious life.
She did not hear the front doors open. She did not hear the heavy, deliberate footsteps moving across the grand foyer. The thick Persian rugs absorbed the sound of polished leather shoes approaching the dining room.
Damian Vescari stood in the archway. He was a mountain of a man, broad-shouldered and rugged, his presence radiating a frighteningly calm lethality. His perfectly tailored black tuxedo was immaculate, the white shirt beneath it crisp, yet he looked like a general stepping onto a battlefield. He had flown back from Chicago a day early, a rare deviation from his ironclad schedule. His battle-hardened face, normally an unreadable mask of stoic control, darkened as his sharp eyes took in the scene before him. The glittering emerald dress. The silver bowl. The spoon hovering near his mother's face.
He moved with terrifying speed. Before Lucinda could even register the shift in the room's atmosphere, a large, calloused hand clamped around her wrist like a steel vise. The grip was brutal, stopping the spoon dead in the air. Lucinda gasped, her eyes flying wide in shock as she looked up into Damian's cold, furious stare. The smirk completely melted from her face, replaced by a sudden, breathless panic. He didn't say a word. The silence of the Mafia Boss was always infinitely more terrifying than his shouts.
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With a swift, precise motion, Damian twisted her wrist just enough to make her drop the spoon. It clattered loudly against the table. Without breaking eye contact with his fiancée, Damian lifted his polished leather shoe and kicked the silver bowl. The heavy bowl launched across the room, smashing into the ornate wallpaper and raining its disgusting contents across the pristine floor.
Lucinda trembled, trying to pull her arm back, but Damian’s grip was immovable. He looked at her not as a lover, but as a pest that had infested his home. The luxury wristwatch peaking from beneath his tuxedo cuff glinted as he finally released her wrist, only to step squarely into her space. He was waiting. Waiting to see if the woman he had invited into his fortress had anything to say in her defense. But Lucinda was paralyzed, her arrogant facade cracking violently under the weight of his stare.
