Chapter 2
The heavy ceramic plates wobbled violently in four-year-old Luca’s small, shaking hands. The bright, cinematic lighting of the bookbinding salon seemed to spotlight the cruelty of the moment, casting no shadows to hide Dorothea’s vicious smirk. Elisa’s breath hitched in her throat, her own arms trembling under the immense weight of the silver serving tray she had been forced to hold.
“Grandma, please,” Luca cried out, his American accent high and frightened. His tiny, polished shoes slipped against the hardwood floor as his center of gravity shifted wildly. “I can't hold it!”
“Stand up straight and stop whining,” Dorothea snapped, refusing to lift a single finger to help her own grandson.
It was a physical impossibility for the child. Luca finally lost his balance entirely. He pitched forward, crying out in terror as the towering stack of ceramic plates began to plummet toward the polished floor.
“Luca!” Elisa screamed.
Driven by the pure, blinding instinct of a mother, Elisa completely abandoned the heavy serving tray in her own arms. She dropped it. The massive silver platter crashed onto the floor with a deafening, metallic explosion, crystal glasses shattering into a thousand brilliant pieces across the room. She dove forward, her elegant birthday dress tearing against the shattered glass, and caught Luca tightly by his small shoulders just a fraction of a second before he hit the ground.
The sound of the shattering crystal severed the polite conversation of the room like a gunshot.
The heavy, polished oak doors of the adjoining private office immediately swung open.
Marciano D’Angelo stepped into the salon. At forty-nine years old, he possessed a deeply masculine, terrifying power that commanded absolute, unquestioned obedience. He was a veteran Mafia boss, dressed in a flawlessly tailored dark three-piece suit, a crisp dress shirt, and polished leather shoes. The heavy gold of his family signet ring caught the light as his cold, sharp, intimidating eyes swept over the wreckage on the floor.
“What is the meaning of this?” Marciano demanded. His deep, slightly raspy voice did not need to be loud to paralyze every person in the room.
He looked at his younger sister kneeling in the shattered glass, clutching her weeping four-year-old son. The color drained from Marciano's fair face, replaced instantly by a dark, lethal fury.
“Uncle Marciano!” Luca sobbed, burying his rosy, tear-stained face into his mother’s neck. The little boy was shaking violently, the terror overriding any sense of familial discretion.
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“Luca, shh,” Elisa pleaded, her voice cracking as she tried to silence the child, terrified of Dorothea's wrath. “It’s okay, baby. It was just an accident.”
“It wasn't an accident!” Luca cried, his voice carrying clearly across the suddenly dead-silent salon. He pointed a small, shaking finger directly at Dorothea, who was suddenly looking incredibly pale. “Grandma forced Mom to serve whenever that woman came home!”
