Chapter 2
Dominic Vale did not simply accept Audrey's explanation. In his world, lies were a currency, and he was an expert at identifying counterfeits. He gave Audrey a slow, chilling sideways look. The slight tilt of his head, the terrifying deadness in his eyes—it was the look of a predator who had just confirmed the scent of blood. He didn't say a single word to his fiancée. The dismissal was absolute.
With deliberate, heavy intent, Dominic turned his broad shoulders, shifting his entire focus fully toward Elena. The housemaid shrank back slightly, her heart hammering violently against her ribs.
"Elena," Dominic said. His voice was incredibly deep, a low, gravelly rumble that seemed to vibrate through the floorboards. He spoke with slow, measured pauses, commanding the absolute attention of the room without ever raising his volume. "Let me see."
The command was soft, but it carried the weight of an executioner's gavel.
Instantly, the gentle hum of the dinner party died. The clinking of silverware stopped. Every single guest at the long table—hardened capos, wealthy politicians, and their rosy-cheeked wives—froze in their seats. Dozens of eyes turned toward the head of the table, watching the undisputed boss of the syndicate focus his terrifying intellect on a mere housemaid.
Elena’s breath hitched in her throat. She looked at the heavy gold signet ring on Dominic's hand, then up at his face. The artistic ink trailing from his fingers to his knuckles—and the small, dangerous tattoo visible on the side of his neck—were stark reminders of exactly who she was dealing with. She was terrified of Audrey, but defying Dominic Vale was a death sentence.
Slowly, agonizingly, Elena lifted her injured right hand away from the safety of her white apron. She held it out toward him, the bright, clean light of the chandeliers illuminating the severe, purple swelling. She could not straighten her fingers; they remained curled in a stiff, unnatural claw of pain.
Looking directly into Dominic’s dark, perceptive eyes, Elena struggled desperately to steady her ragged breathing.
"She kept slamming it," Elena whispered. Her voice was barely a breath, trembling violently under the crushing weight of the silent room.
Her inner brows rose in a helpless, devastating expression of vulnerability. Hot, silent tears spilled over her dark eyelashes, cutting tracks down her fair, rosy cheeks before she could even blink them away. As soon as the confession left her lips, Elena’s shoulders drew sharply inward, her body instinctively bracing for the physical punishment she was certain would follow for speaking against the lady of the house.
Audrey’s manicured hands gripped the edge of the mahogany table, her knuckles turning bone white. She had expected the maid to cower, to accept the lie and disappear into the kitchens. She had not expected the girl to look a mafia king in the eye and tell the truth.
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"Dominic, please," Audrey interjected quickly, her voice tight and defensive. "She is hysterical. The girl doesn't know what she's saying. It was an accident in the east wing."
Dominic did not look at Audrey. He did not acknowledge her voice. His eyes remained locked on the trembling, beautiful woman standing before him, watching the tears fall from her eyes. He reached out with his tattooed hand, but he didn't touch her bruised skin. He simply hovered his hand beneath hers, a silent, powerful gesture of unexpected protection that sent a shockwave of confusion through the hardened criminals watching the scene unfold.
