Chapter 5 - The Father's Roar
Salvatore Delacroix gently placed Elena’s feet onto the marble floor, keeping his strong arm firmly locked around her waist.
The twenty-one-year-old heiress could barely stand, her knees buckling under the weight of sheer emotional exhaustion.
Maria immediately stepped beside her, looping Elena’s frail arm over her shoulder to bear the young woman's weight.
"Keep her safe, Maria," Salvatore whispered, his tone terrifyingly soft before he slowly straightened to his full height.
The tenderness in his piercing gray eyes vanished completely, replaced by an explosive, volcanic fury.
The veins in his thick neck bulged against the crisp white collar of his dress shirt, turning his skin crimson.
He turned slowly toward Victoria Sterling, who was cowering near the branches of the glowing Christmas tree.
The entire ballroom held its breath, the thirty-five wealthy onlookers paralyzed by the aura of impending violence.
Salvatore took one heavy step forward, the polished sole of his shoe crushing a fallen ornament into glittering dust.
"WHAT THE HELL DID YOU DO TO MY DAUGHTER?!" he roared, his voice detonating through the vaulted ballroom like a cannon.
The crystal chandeliers overhead seemed to vibrate from the sheer acoustic power of his protective rage.
Victoria flinched backward as if physically struck by the blast of his thunderous condemnation.
Her platinum hair slipped out of its perfect styling, framing a face that had turned the color of ash.
"Salvatore, please, let me explain, she was trying to ruin our wedding, she was trying to destroy us!" Victoria shrieked.
Her excuses sounded pitiful, hollow, and disgusting in the face of the shivering girl weeping behind him.
Salvatore’s jaw worked furiously, his light stubble bristling as he closed the remaining distance between them.
He did not raise a weapon, but the cold promise of absolute destruction burned openly within his eyes.
Elena sobbed louder at the sound of her father's fury, her knuckles clutching Maria’s sleeve until her fingers were white.
The lead security guard, Marco, stepped forward from the ballroom entrance, his hand instinctively resting on his holster.
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Every soul in the mansion understood that the glamorous engagement that had ruled Chicago society was dead on the floor.
Victoria realized that the man she had planned to manipulate and marry was now her ultimate executioner.
