My Fiancée Kicked the 82-Year-Old Woman Who Raised Me Down the Stairs—Then She Claimed My Mother Was Still Alive.

The grand ballroom of the Santoro harbor estate was a shimmering palace of polished marble, glittering Baccarat chandeliers, and towering white floral arches. Outside, the dark waters of Boston Harbor lapped against the gray-stone foundation, but inside, two hundred high-society figures, corrupt politicians, and syndicate lieutenants clinked vintage champagne glasses in celebration of the wedding of the century.

At fifty-two, Victor Santoro commanded the room without raising his voice. He was an imposing mountain of a man—broad-shouldered, muscular, rugged, deeply masculine, and terrifyingly composed. Draped in a custom midnight-black tuxedo, gold cufflinks, a luxury wristwatch, and hand-polished leather shoes, Victor radiated an aura of unyielding authority. He stood near the head table, taking a slow sip of sparkling water, his piercing dark eyes scanning the hall.

At thirty-nine, Celestine Vale was the picture of glamorous perfection. Victor’s fiancée wore an extravagant white wedding gown that cascaded around her like liquid ice, dripping with diamond earrings, a matching bracelet, and red-soled heels. Her fair, rosy cheeks were taut with a sharp, calculating smile, but her eyes burned with cold ambition.

Near the top of the sweeping double staircase stood eighty-two-year-old Beatrice Santoro. Victor’s elderly aunt, who had raised him after his parents were taken, was a small, dignified woman. Dressed in an elegant navy formal suit, a triple-strand pearl necklace, and low heels, Beatrice was physically frail but fiercely protective of her nephew.

As Beatrice slowly navigated the carpeted top landing, her frail hand resting on the mahogany banister, Celestine glided behind her. With a swift, cold movement, Celestine raised her white heel and kicked the elderly woman squarely in the back of the leg.

Beatrice gasped as her knee buckled. She lost her balance, tumbling backward down several carpeted steps as screams echoed through the ballroom.

Celestine looked down at the falling matriarch, her red lips curving into a ruthless, icy sneer. "You won’t ruin my wedding," Celestine whispered coldly.

From the lower landing, Victor lunged forward with explosive power. He crossed the marble stairs in three massive strides, catching Beatrice in his broad arms before she reached the bottom. He cushioned her fall against his chest, steadying her frail frame.

Beatrice trembled violently against Victor’s tuxedo lapel, her breath coming in ragged gasps. She gripped his hand with surprising strength, looking up into his dark eyes.

"She’s marrying you for the empire," Beatrice whispered, her voice breathless and trembling with fear.

Victor did not say a word, but the atmosphere in the room plummeted into liquid ice. He carefully handed Beatrice into the arms of his trusted guards standing at the base of the stairs.

Victor turned around and climbed the sweeping staircase, his polished shoes clicking against the wood with lethal rhythm. The music died. The room froze.

Celestine stood on the landing among the white lilies, forcing a arrogant smile. "Victor, darling, she slipped—"

Victor didn't let her finish. He brought his broad, heavy palm across Celestine’s face with terrifying force.

The open-handed slap echoed like a gun shot through the cavernous hall. The sheer power behind the blow sent Celestine staggering backward, crashing violently into a large floral wedding display and sending crystal vases and white roses smashing onto the carpet.

Gasps reverberated through the hall.

Celestine lay among the ruined flowers, her white gown rumpled, her fair cheek rapidly turning red. Slowly, she pushed herself up onto her hands, her eyes blazing with furious, venomous confidence.

"Cancel the wedding, and you never find your mother," Celestine threatened in a low, raspy voice.

Victor froze on the top step, his broad chest stilling. Beside the guards below, Beatrice’s face instantly drained of all color.