Chapter 3
The bright, cheerful atmosphere of the engagement reception evaporated completely. The natural sunlight streaming through the windows suddenly felt harsh and unforgiving. Sarah Jenkins, the forty-year-old longtime estate housekeeper, had been watching the incident unfold from the catering doors. With her fair skin and slight peach undertones flushing with protective anger, she hurried forward. Wearing her crisp professional housekeeper uniform, apron, and sensible flats, Sarah was one of the few people in the estate who truly cared for Malik.
"Mr. Sterling, I have his spare," Sarah said urgently, reaching into her apron pocket as she approached the reception table.
Evelyn, realizing that her entire future—and possibly her life—was unraveling in front of the entire syndicate, panicked entirely. Her pale porcelain skin turned a blotchy, terrified red. Driven by the desperate, irrational need to silence the boy before he could repeat what he knew, she lost her mind.
"Get away from him!" Evelyn shrieked, her American accent pitching into a hysterical, shrill octave.
Evelyn violently shoved Sarah aside. The unexpected force sent the housekeeper stumbling hard into the edge of the reception table, knocking over a tower of crystal champagne glasses that shattered loudly across the marble. Without missing a beat, Evelyn lunged directly toward Malik, her manicured hands hooked like claws, desperate to grab the boy.
Darius reacted with blinding, explosive speed.
Before Evelyn could even touch the fabric of Malik’s suit, Darius rose to his full height. He caught Evelyn by both upper arms, his tattooed fingers digging brutally into her flesh. He did not slap her; he did not strike her. Instead, using the sheer, overwhelming masculine power of his upper body, Darius forcefully hurled her backward.
Evelyn flew through the air, her elegant gown twisting around her. She crashed violently onto an empty reception sofa positioned a few yards away. The heavy piece of furniture slid backward from the impact, and Evelyn collapsed into the cushions in a tangled, gasping heap, her diamond jewelry rattling.
The entire reception hall went dead silent. No dialogue was spoken.
The music stopped. The guests froze. But the most terrifying shift in the room occurred among the perimeter security.
As Darius stood tall, shielding his son, the highly trained bodyguards in professional suits did not move toward Evelyn. Instead, as if responding to an unspoken, invisible command born of pure instinct, five massive, armed men silently stepped away from the walls.
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They immediately surrounded Andre Sterling.
Andre, the forty-five-year-old senior Mafia capo and Darius’s cousin, stood frozen near the bar. His dark, smooth ebony skin caught the bright cinematic light, but a sudden sheen of nervous sweat had broken out across his forehead. He wore a tailored suit, a heavy family ring, and polished leather shoes, but in that moment, boxed in by the Boss's loyal men, he looked utterly defenseless. The trap had not yet been sprung, but the jaws were already closing.
