Chapter 2 - THE SHADOW OVER THE GRAND PIANO
Gabriel DeLuca did not raise his voice when he stepped closer to the grand piano, yet the heavy hum of conversation across the ballroom died away instantly. Forty-eight elite guests caught in mid-laugh or holding champagne flutes suddenly found something intensely fascinating to look at on the floor or the crystal chandeliers overhead. When a man like Gabriel commanded a room, stillness was not requested; it was enforced.
His dark eyes, sharp and calculating beneath heavy brows, shifted from Isabella’s flushed face down to Sophie. The little girl had instinctively tucked her small purple-butterfly hearing aids back into place, her fingers tightly clutching the folded piece of cardstock hidden inside the folds of her dress.
“Isabella,” Gabriel said, his tone low, measured, and entirely devoid of warmth. “What was happening here?”
Isabella’s smile flickered, though she recovered with a practiced, breathless laugh, her hand sliding smoothly over the lapel of Gabriel’s black tuxedo jacket.
“Oh, darling, nothing at all,” she trilled, tilting her head with an expression of tender exasperation. “Sophie was just getting a little overwhelmed by the crowd and the music. Hannah was trying to help, but you know how sensitive she gets when there’s too much stimulation. I was simply suggesting that she take Sophie upstairs to quiet down.”
It was a masterclass in manipulation. In a single breath, Isabella had reframed her cruel reprimand into maternal concern, painting herself as the protective stepmother managing a fragile child.
I opened my mouth, the hot retort burning the back of my throat. She wasn't overwhelmed. She was hiding because you removed her from the seating chart and threw away her card.
Before the words could escape, Isabella’s eyes flicked toward me—a quick, razor-sharp glance that carried an unmistakable silent warning.
Your mother’s health insurance.
The memory of my mother’s fragile sixty-four-year-old spine, the physical therapy bills, and the assisted-living facility owned by Isabella’s family flashed across my mind like a physical blow. If I spoke up, if I crossed the line, Isabella had the power to destroy my family’s fragile stability before the clock struck midnight.
Gabriel looked down at his daughter. His expression softened, the hard lines of the mafia boss melting into those of a deeply worried father. He crouched down beside Sophie, resting his large hands gently on her knees.
“Are you tired, sweetheart?” Gabriel asked softly, knowing full well she could read his lips even in the dim light. “Do you want to go upstairs?”
Sophie looked up at her father. Her big brown eyes were swimming with unshed tears, her lower lip trembling slightly. She looked past Gabriel to Isabella, who was standing just behind him with a tight, reassuring smile that didn't reach her eyes.
Sophie swallowed hard, her small hands tightly gripping the hidden card in her pocket.
She didn't sign anything. She just nodded slowly, looking down at the polished floor.
“Okay,” Gabriel whispered, standing back up and placing a gentle kiss on the top of her dark curls. He looked at me, his expression unreadable. “Hannah, take her up to the family quarters. Make sure she settles in with her favorite book.”
“Yes, Mr. DeLuca,” I murmured, keeping my eyes lowered.
May you like
As I walked Sophie toward the grand staircase, I felt Isabella’s gaze burning into my back like a branding iron. But as we reached the first landing, I looked back for a fraction of a second.
Gabriel was standing by the piano, picking up the glass of champagne Isabella had left behind. But his eyes weren't on his fiancée. They were staring down at a small piece of purple ribbon that had fallen from Sophie’s hair onto the Persian rug—and lying right beside it was a torn corner of white cardstock.
