Celeste depraved enough to strike a four-year-old child and grind her eyeglasses to dust beneath her heel

The bright, airy colors of the museum felt suddenly suffocating to the terrified four-year-old on the floor. Mia trembled in her elegant cardigan, her small hands patting blindly at the carpet, trying to feel for the shattered remnants of her eyeglasses.

"Leave them," Celeste ordered coldly, stepping closer so the shadow of her formal gown fell over the weeping child. "If you tell him about this, I will make sure you are sent away to a boarding school so far from Boston that your father will forget you even exist. Do you understand me?"

Mia let out a ragged, terrified sob, unable to clearly see the beautiful, cruel woman standing over her. "I want my Daddy."

"Your daddy is busy running an empire," Celeste sneered. "He doesn't have time for a defective, weeping—"

Celeste never finished her sentence.

Rocco Moretti had not survived three decades in the Mafia by being oblivious to his surroundings. Even while discussing museum logistics with Julia Reed, his sharp, intimidating eyes had been scanning the perimeter. He had caught the sudden, jerky movement near the kinetic-orbit display.

Rocco crossed the exhibit hall immediately. He did not run, but his long, powerful strides ate up the distance with terrifying, predatory speed. The capos and guests parted instantly, recognizing the sudden, lethal shift in their Boss's posture.

"Celeste," Rocco said. His voice was not loud, but it cut through the room like a frozen blade.

Celeste gasped, spinning around. Her fair, rosy cheeks instantly drained of color. "Rocco! Darling, she just tripped and fell—"

Rocco did not even let her finish the lie. He reached out with his massive, masculine hands and grabbed Celeste by the arm, pulling her roughly away from his daughter. He shoved his fiancée aside with enough force to make her stumble in her high heels.

Without hesitating, the veteran Mafia boss dropped to his knees, his tailored suit trousers pressing into the carpet. He reached out and gently pulled Mia into his broad chest.

"I've got you, Mia," Rocco murmured, his deep American accent softening entirely as he cradled his daughter. "Daddy is right here."

Mia wrapped her tiny arms around his neck, gripping the expensive fabric of his suit sleeve with desperate strength. She buried her face in his shoulder, her small body shaking with profound sobs.

"She broke them," Mia cried, her voice muffled against his chest.

Rocco looked down at the carpet. The crushed, mangled remains of his daughter's prescription eyeglasses lay near his polished leather shoes. The glass was ground to dust. He slowly turned his head, his terrifying gaze locking onto Celeste.

"Daddy," Mia sobbed, peeling her face away from his shoulder. She squinted through her tears, her blurred vision scanning the room until she recognized the tailored suit of a man standing just a few feet behind Celeste. It was Adrian Moretti, Rocco’s cousin.