Chapter 3 - THE RETURN OF THE DON
Vincent Ashford returned to Rhode Island like a thunderstorm making landfall.
The heavy iron gates of the estate parted just after midnight. A convoy of three armored SUVs tore up the gravel driveway. Vincent stepped out of the lead vehicle, his dark wool overcoat snapping in the biting wind. He was a man carved from granite and ruthlessness, with piercing gray eyes that missed nothing and a reputation that terrified the Eastern seaboard.
Sabrina was waiting in the grand foyer, draped in an emerald silk robe, a picture of aristocratic perfection. She threw her arms around his neck, pressing a kiss to his jaw.
"Darling, you're home early," she purred, tracing the lapel of his coat.
Vincent offered her a tight, perfunctory smile. His mind was still navigating the treacherous negotiations in Chicago, but his instincts—honed by a lifetime of surviving the underworld—immediately sensed a shift in the air of his home. The staff, usually invisible and silent, were excessively tense. The head butler wouldn't meet his eyes.
"What happened while I was gone?" Vincent asked, his voice a low baritone that sent a shiver down Sabrina's spine.
"Nothing of consequence," Sabrina lied smoothly, pouring him a glass of scotch. "Just a minor disciplinary issue with one of the maids. She forgot her place, so I gave her a reminder. It’s handled."
Vincent took the glass but didn't drink. "Which maid?"
Before Sabrina could answer, the door to the dining room opened. Eleanor walked in, carrying a silver tray of fresh water and linens.
Vincent froze.
The glass in his hand cracked under the sudden, immense pressure of his grip. He stared at Eleanor. The long, beautiful dark hair that used to fall in soft waves down her back—the hair he had secretly admired every morning when she brought him his coffee—was gone, replaced by a jagged, blunt cut that screamed of violence.
Eleanor paused, her eyes meeting his for a fraction of a second. The air between them pulled taut, heavy with unspoken words. Then, with perfect poise, she lowered her gaze, set the tray down, and turned to leave.
"Eleanor. Stop." Vincent's voice wasn't a request; it was an absolute command.
She stopped, her back rigid.
Vincent set the shattered glass on a console table, ignoring the whiskey dripping from his knuckles. He bypassed Sabrina completely, closing the distance between himself and Eleanor in three long strides. He reached out, his large, calloused hand hovering just an inch from the ruined ends of her hair.
"Who did this?" he demanded, his voice dropping to a terrifying whisper.
Sabrina scoffed from across the room. "Vincent, honestly. She was being insubordinate. I simply—"
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"I asked her," Vincent interrupted, his gray eyes flashing with a lethal darkness as he looked down at Eleanor. "Who put their hands on you?"
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