Chapter 2 - The Return of the Patriarch
The heavy oak front doors of the estate closed with a muffled, airtight thud that echoed down the marble vestibule.
Outside, a sudden Chicago lake-effect blizzard had begun to lash the high arched windows, driving sheets of gray sleet against the glass. Mauricio DeLuca stepped out of the foyer, unfastening the frosted cashmere collar of his overcoat and handing it to the trembling young footman who hurried forward with downcast eyes.
At thirty-eight, Mauricio was an imposing, terrifying presence in the city of Chicago. Tall, powerfully built, with wide, formidable shoulders that strained against his clothes, he carried the lethal, coiled energy of an apex predator that had clawed its way to the summit of the Midwest’s most ruthless corporate and syndicate empire. His thick, dark wavy hair was tousled from the freezing gale off Lake Michigan, framing sharp, masculine features that looked as though they had been chiseled from northern Italian slate. A dark layer of three-day stubble accentuated the hard, unyielding line of his jaw.
He wore a tailored dark navy button-down shirt, its top two buttons unfastened to reveal the thick column of his throat and the jagged black ink of ancient Latin scripture that climbed toward his collarbone. His sleeves were rolled up past his forearms, displaying corded muscle, prominent veins, and sprawling sleeves of dark, dense geometric tattoos that disappeared beneath an eight-figure platinum Patek Philippe on his left wrist.
Mauricio had just spent two hours in the carriage house on an emergency satellite conference with logistics captains in Rotterdam. He had stepped away reluctantly, his mind consumed by the thought of his daughter alone in the main house with his parents.
He moved with soundless, athletic grace across the Crema Marfil floor toward the kitchen, intending to fetch a warm glass of spiced cider for Renata before they opened their personal gifts in the drawing room.
As he crossed the threshold of the limestone archway, Mauricio DeLuca froze.
The air left his lungs in a single, violent hitch. The ambient hum of the grand house—the distant crackle of the fireplace, the faint giggles of his nieces, the singing of the holiday carols—died in his ears, swallowed by a sudden, deafening roar of pure adrenaline.
Standing on a rickety wooden stool in the scullery was his little girl.
Her beautiful pastel rainbow dress, which she had picked out with such breathtaking pride three days ago, was splattered with dishwater and grease across the front ruffles. Her blue-and-pink hair bow sat crooked, her curls damp with sweat. Swallowed by oversized blue rubber gloves, her tiny arms were trembling violently as she pushed a grease-blackened pan beneath the scalding water running from the brass gooseneck faucet.
And standing over her, holding a crystal glass with a look of bored, aristocratic disdain, was his mother.
Mauricio did not shout. The true monsters of the world never announce their arrival with noise.
He moved across the kitchen like a phantom, the soles of his black leather oxfords making no sound against the marble. In three massive, ground-eating strides, he cleared the distance to the sink.
His large, scarred right hand shot out like an iron piston, slapping the brass faucet handle downward with a sharp, concussive CLACK that cut the steaming water instantly.
Renata gasped, flinching hard, her tiny shoulders hunching as though she anticipated a blow.
“Daddy?” she whispered.
She turned her head slowly, her exhausted, rosy face streaked with tears, looking up into the towering silhouette beside her. The moment her wide brown eyes registered his dark wavy hair and the familiar black ink on his neck, the agonizing tension in her small frame shattered.
“Daddy!” she cried, a broken, sobbing sound of pure relief.
Mauricio’s face had drained of every drop of color, leaving his skin the color of wet chalk beneath his dark stubble. His eyes were wide, burning with a ferocious, homicidal fury that made the air in the kitchen turn arctic.
Without looking at his mother, Mauricio reached down. His calloused hands—hands that had broken collarbones and signed multimillion-dollar warrants—moved with an agonizing, feather-light gentleness. He grasped the cuffs of the oversized pale-blue rubber gloves, sliding them off her small forearms and tossing them onto the counter where they landed with a wet, heavy slap.
He took Renata’s small, bare hands into his own palms.
What he saw made his heart fracture into a thousand jagged pieces.
May you like
Her delicate, fair skin was swollen, raw, and angry red from prolonged exposure to scalding water and industrial lye soap. The tender skin across her second knuckles was cracked, weeping tiny beads of serous fluid, and her small fingernails were bruised and gray from the copper pots. She was shivering so violently that her teeth were clicking together.
“Look at me, sweetheart,” Mauricio choked out, his gravelly baritone cracking with a depth of agony he had never felt in his entire life. “Look at Daddy.”
