Chapter 2 - The Sound of Breaking Ice
Inside the limestone mansion, the dinner party was reaching its opulent peak. String quartets played softly from the music gallery, their classical notes weaving through the laughter of forty of the most influential people in the Northeast.
Roman DeLuca sat at the head of the mahogany dining table, carving a prime rib with absolute, methodical precision. His sleeves were rolled up slightly, exposing the firm, corded muscle of his forearms and a faint, jagged scar near his wrist—the souvenir of a Chicago warehouse deal that had gone sideways six years ago.
He looked around the table, his sharp gray eyes noting every detail.
His uncle, Frank, was laughing too loudly at a joke told by a state senator. Several corporate executives were quietly discussing a shipping merger that depended entirely on Roman’s approval. And Vivian sat to his right, radiant in her red silk gown, holding a glass of sparkling water and chatting animatedly with the borough president.
Something felt off.
It wasn't a tangible threat. It was an instinct—the same hyper-awareness that had kept Roman alive through three assassination attempts and a hostile corporate takeover of the family's shipping empire.
He glanced down at his gold wristwatch. 9:15 PM.
Twenty minutes earlier, he had noticed a slender young woman with dark hair tied back in a messy bun carrying a stack of dessert plates into the service hall. She had looked exhausted, her shoulders tense with a quiet, bone-deep weariness that contrasted sharply with the extravagant luxury of the room. He had seen her around the estate for the past two years—always working, always invisible to the guests, but fiercely diligent.
He hadn't caught her name, but he remembered the fierce, intelligent look in her dark eyes the time she had accidentally spilled a drop of coffee near his desk and refused to cower when he looked at her.
Roman paused, laying down his carving knife.
"Is something wrong with the roast, Roman?" Vivian asked, leaning over, her expensive perfume—heavy jasmine and vanilla—washing over him.
"Where is the wine?" Roman asked quietly, his voice cutting through the ambient chatter of the table.
Vivian blinked, a momentary flicker of surprise crossing her polished features before she smoothed it over with a light laugh. "Oh, the Bellamy? I had one of the staff run down to the carriage house to grab a reserve bottle for Daddy. It should be up any minute now."
Roman’s gaze narrowed. "In this storm?"
"It's just a little snow, darling."
"The wind speeds are currently seventy miles per hour," Roman said, his voice dropping into a flat, dangerous register. "Trees are down on Route 25. The temperature has dropped below zero. No one with an ounce of sense sends staff across the south lawn tonight."
Frank chuckled, raising his wineglass. "Relax, nephew. The help are paid to weather a little breeze. Build character."
Roman did not laugh. He looked at Vivian. Her eyes had darted away for a fraction of a second—a tiny tell that didn't escape his notice.
"Which staff member did you send?" Roman asked.
Vivian’s smile wavered slightly. "I... I don't recall her name. One of the kitchen girls."
Roman stood up so suddenly his heavy oak chair scraped loudly against the parquet flooring, silencing the entire end of the table. Without another word, he walked away from his own dinner party, his broad shoulders tense beneath his tailored vest.
He strode through the service hall, ignoring the frantic calls of the head housekeeper, and yanked open the heavy glass-paneled service door leading out into the howling blizzard.
The cold hit him like a physical blow, but he didn't hesitate. He stepped out onto the stone patio, his eyes scanning the vast, white expanse of the south lawn where the wind whipped snow into blinding vortexes.
As he walked past the frozen hedge maze, something dark caught his eye near the edge of the carriage house steps.
A splash of crimson against the pure white drift.
Roman broke into a dead sprint, his boots churning through the deep snow.
May you like
When he reached the carriage house, he found her.
Claire Bennett lay half-buried in a snowbank, her face bloodless, her lips blue, and her fingers locked tightly around a single, unbroken bottle of 1990 Bellamy Reserve.
