Chapter 3
The air in the music parlor turned heavy and suffocating. The bright, vivid colors of the engagement-flower display seemed entirely out of place in the dark, impending violence settling over the room.
Celeste, realizing the catastrophic danger of Nolan looking too closely at the child, stepped aggressively between Nolan and Mae. Her elegant engagement dress swished violently against the marble. She snatched a half-empty champagne glass from a nearby silver tray.
"I said, put the brat down!" Celeste shrieked.
With a frantic, unhinged motion, she threw the crystal champagne glass directly into Nolan’s chest. The glass shattered against his tailored three-piece suit, spraying expensive alcohol and jagged shards across his dark vest and crisp shirt.
Nolan did not even flinch. He remained perfectly still, holding Nora securely in his left arm.
Furious that he had not reacted, Celeste raised her right hand and delivered a hard, stinging slap across his face. The sharp sound echoed through the high-ceilinged room.
"You are humiliating me!" Celeste screamed, her rosy skin flushing a mottled, ugly red. "She is a servant! Her child is trash!"
Before Nolan could respond, Marcus Wainwright stepped forward. The forty-year-old Mafia associate moved with aggressive, unearned confidence. He grabbed Nolan firmly by the shoulder, his expensive tailored suit pulling tight across his back. With a violent, sudden shove, Marcus forced Nolan backward toward the edge of the grand piano.
"Listen to my sister, Nolan," Marcus threatened, his American accent thick with misplaced authority. "Don’t embarrass yourself over a maid’s child. Put the kid down and tell the staff to throw them out. We have guests arriving in an hour."
Nolan effortlessly absorbed the shove, his polished leather shoes anchoring him firmly to the marble. He gently, carefully set Nora down behind him, positioning his broad body as an impenetrable shield between the little girl, the terrified maid, and the two Wainwrights.
Once the child was safe, the atmosphere in the room shifted from tense to apocalyptic.
Nolan slowly turned his face back toward Celeste. His cheek bore a faint red mark from her slap, but his cold, sharp, intimidating eyes were entirely devoid of human emotion. He spoke slowly, with controlled pauses between his words, keeping his volume deceptively low.
"You threw glass at me," Nolan whispered, every syllable sounding measured, cold, and unspeakably dangerous. "And you struck me. In my own house."
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Marcus sneered, completely oblivious to the fact that he was standing in the crosshairs of a predator. "Somebody had to wake you up. You’re acting like a fool."
"Am I?" Nolan asked softly.
