Chapter 1 - The Strike on the Marble Floor
A brutal fist full of golden rings twisted into chestnut hair without a single whisper of mercy.
Victoria Vance dragged the twenty-five-year-old housemaid backward until the girl’s spine bowed like an arch of strained wire.
Elena let out a suffocated cry as her scalp burned under the relentless leverage of manicured fingers.
The platinum blonde sneered, her diamond earrings catching the cold glare of the Chicago twilight through the tall windows.
Her fitted golden-yellow evening gown shimmered like venomous scales against the magnificent marble of the Moretti estate.
Before Elena could draw enough air to plead for her life, Victoria delivered a savage, open-handed slap across her cheek.
The wet crack of flesh against flesh detonated through the cavernous grand entrance hall like a gunshot.
The young maid’s head snapped sideways, crimson welling instantly at the corner of her swollen mouth.
Victoria did not pause to admire her cruelty; she shoved the servant downward with all the vicious weight in her shoulders.
Elena hit the polished white marble hard, her palms scraping raw against the freezing stone as she collapsed to her hands and knees.
Her white apron fluttered, stained by the dust of an unprovoked assault, while her chest heaved in silent terror.
At that exact split second, the heavy carved mahogany entrance doors were thrown open with thunderous violence.
Dante Moretti stepped across the threshold, his towering six-foot-three frame cutting an imposing silhouette against the outer dusk.
The forty-five-year-old mafia billionaire carried the scent of rain, gunpowder, and cold command on his tailored black wool coat.
His piercing dark eyes swept across the grand foyer, expecting a peaceful homecoming, only to freeze in sheer, paralyzing disbelief.
Just twenty feet ahead, illuminated beneath the weeping crystal chandelier, his seventy-six-year-old mother sat helpless.
Donna Sofia Moretti was bound like a condemned prisoner to the cream-colored upholstered armchair near the sweeping staircase.
Thick coils of soft white rope pinned her frail arms to the gilded woodwork of the frame.
A brutal white cloth gag was stretched taut across her mouth, biting mercilessly into the delicate skin of her silver-haired cheeks.
Her dark-purple silk dress was rumpled, her prized pearl necklace askew against her collarbone.
Sofia’s terrified eyes locked onto her son, wide and wet with unspeakable distress as muffled moans rattled in her throat.
Victoria did not miss a heartbeat of her calculated theatrics, instantly whirling toward the entrance with practiced horror.
She pointed one manicured, trembling finger straight down at the weeping housemaid on the floor.
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“Dante, thank God you are back!” Victoria shrieked at the top of her lungs, feigning a tremor of protective fury.
“She attacked your mother!” the blonde screamed, stepping between the doorway and the captive matriarch.
