Chapter 2 - The Dining Room Interrogation
The formal dining room was massive, illuminated by a crystal chandelier that dripped with thousands of sparkling prisms. For half a year, I had dusted the ornate mahogany table that seated twenty-four people, but I had never dared to touch the plush velvet chairs. Now, Emma was perched on a booster cushion, her eyes round with wonder as Chef Antonio set down silver platters heaped with fluffy scrambled eggs, buttery pancakes, crisp bacon, and a tall glass of whole milk.
""Mommy, look!"" Emma whispered, terrified that speaking too loudly would break the spell. ""Is it Christmas? Did the angels send breakfast?""
""Eat, sweetheart,"" I whispered, blinking back tears of humiliation and relief. My own stomach growled loudly, an aching, hollow sound that betrayed the three days I had survived on leftover crusts and tap water.
Damian sat at the head of the table, an untouched cup of black espresso resting before him. He slid a plate toward me. ""Eat, Grace. You can barely stand on your feet. If you faint in front of your daughter, she'll think it's her fault.""
That was the harsh truth of motherhood; guilt was an ever-present shadow. Swallowing my pride, I picked up a fork. The first bite of warm food tasted like heaven, sending warmth rushing through my chilled limbs. Damian watched us quietly, his sharp, calculating mind working behind those hooded gray eyes. He wasn't the monster the Chicago tabloids painted him to be—or at least, not right now. There was a profound, aching sorrow in the way he observed Emma's small hands devouring the pancakes.
""Your mother,"" Damian began, his voice low and measured, making sure Emma was too engrossed in her meal to pay close attention. ""What was her full name?""
I hesitated, setting my fork down. ""Julianna Miller. At least, that was the name on my birth certificate. I never knew my father. When I was four, she left me on the steps of Saint Jude’s Orphanage in southern Illinois. She left a note saying she had to protect me from monsters, and that loving me meant staying dead to the world.""
Damian’s jaw hardened. He leaned forward, resting his forearms on the table. ""My father, Leonardo Belucci, married a woman named Julianna twenty-two years ago. She arrived from nowhere, quiet, beautiful, and carrying deep psychological scars. My father fell madly in love with her. He showered her with diamonds, built her that private chapel where Emma prayed last night, and gave her everything money could buy.""
""And what happened to her?"" I asked, my heart pounding in my throat.
""She died fifteen years ago,"" Damian replied, his tone chillingly flat. ""A sudden car crash off Lake Shore Drive during a winter blizzard. Her car hit the guardrail and plunged into the icy water. Divers recovered the vehicle three days later, but the current was too strong. Her body was never found.""
A cold draft seemed to sweep through the warm dining room. ""If she died fifteen years ago, why did Margaret look at Emma like she had seen a ghost?""
""Because Margaret was Julianna’s personal maid,"" Damian explained, his eyes locking onto mine with an intensity that made it hard to breathe. ""And because my father's younger brother, Uncle Vincent, took over Julianna’s entire estate and trust fund the day the court declared her legally dead. A trust fund worth over fifty million dollars that Leonardo had locked away in her name.""
Before I could process the staggering number, the heavy dining room doors swung open. A tall, impeccably dressed man in his late fifties strode into the room, leaning lightly on a silver-topped cane. His hair was slicked back with expensive pomade, and an arrogant smirk twisted his thin lips.
""Well, well, nephew,"" Vincent Belucci sneered, his cold eyes sweeping over Emma and me with blatant disgust. ""I heard rumors from the security guards that you were hosting street urchins at the family table. Have you lost your mind? Or are you simply forgetting who actually holds the board seats in our international logistics firm?""
Damian didn't flinch. He didn't even stand up. He slowly took a sip of his espresso, his silence far more terrifying than a shout. ""Vincent. You entered my private quarters without knocking. In our world, men have lost fingers for less.""
Vincent chuckled, though his fingers tightened nervously around his cane. ""We are family, Damian. Don't be dramatic. I came to discuss the new harbor shipments. But instead, I find a dirty maid eating off imported china."" He glared down at Emma. ""Get these beggars out of this house before they steal the silverware.""
Emma whimpered, dropping her fork and scrambling off her chair to bury her face into my lap. Rage, hot and blinding, surged through my veins. I stood up, placing myself entirely between my daughter and the wealthy predator sneering down at us.
""We may be poor, sir,"" I snapped, looking Vincent dead in the eye, ""but we are not thieves. And you have no right to speak to my child that way.""
Vincent’s face contorted in fury. He raised his cane, taking a threatening step forward. ""You dare talk back to me, you worthless—""
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In a blur of lethal motion, Damian was on his feet. Before Vincent’s cane could drop, Damian’s hand shot out, catching the wooden shaft mid-air and twisting it violently. Vincent cried out in pain as Damian shoved him backward against the wall, pinning him by the throat with one massive forearm.
""Raise your hand in front of this child again,"" Damian whispered, his voice vibrating with pure venom, ""and I will bury you under the concrete of the very harbor you came to discuss. Now get out.""
