Chapter 2 - The Stare-Down
"You look mad," Mia announced. Her voice, high and bell-clear, echoed off the vaulted mahogany ceiling.
My heart slammed against my ribs like a trapped bird. My lungs forgot how to expand. I opened my mouth, desperate to scream an apology, to throw myself between my innocent child and the monster of the estate, but my throat had seized completely.
Renzo Moretti’s eyes bulged to the size of billiard balls. One of the security guards near the door slowly raised his gaze to stare intently at an ornate plaster molding on the ceiling, as if silently praying for the ceiling to collapse and bury them all.
Vincent Castalano did not move. He did not blink.
He simply looked down at the tiny human being who had breezed past his elite security perimeter like it was a playground gate.
Mia studied him with the intense, unblinking curiosity children reserve for strange dogs or oversized cartoon characters. Seeing that her initial expression hadn't prompted a conversation, she decided to up the ante. She folded her tiny arms across her chest, jutted her lower lip out in a monumental pout, and let out a heavy, exaggerated toddler sigh that rustled the hem of her yellow dress.
Five seconds dragged by. They felt like five years.
In the criminal underworld, looking Vincent Castalano directly in the eyes for more than two seconds was considered an act of supreme defiance—a death sentence for anyone foolish enough to try it. Yet here stood my daughter, boldly challenging the king of Manhattan to a staring contest.
Then, slowly, almost imperceptibly, Vincent’s right eyebrow ticked upward.
Mia’s eyebrow ticked upward in immediate, synchronized mimicry.
The corner of Vincent’s mouth twitched—a microscopic muscle movement that hadn't seen daylight in a decade.
Mia’s mouth twitched right back.
A strange, strangled sound broke the silence. Renzo Moretti had clamped his hand over his mouth, his broad shoulders shaking violently as he tried to suppress a laugh that threatened to rupture his internal organs.
Vincent whipped his head around, his gaze shooting toward Renzo like a laser-guided missile.
Renzo instantly snapped upright, grabbed a digital tablet from the corner of the desk, buried his face in the screen, and began typing furiously at nothing, his face turning the color of a ripe plum.
"You do that face a lot," Mia declared, pointing a sticky finger straight at Vincent’s chest.
"Mia!"
The scream finally tore its way out of my throat. Everyone in the room pivoted toward the doorway as I stumbled forward, my legs trembling so badly I thought I would collapse onto the Persian rug.
Mia beamed, her face lighting up with unadulterated joy. "Hi, Mommy!"
Heat rushed up my neck, flooding my cheeks with burning humiliation. I dropped to my knees beside her, grabbing her small shoulders and pulling her frantically toward me.
"Mr. Castalano, I am so, so sorry," I blurted out, my voice cracking with panic. "My babysitter canceled at the last second, I had nowhere to leave her, she was supposed to stay down in the laundry room, I only turned my back to file the shipping manifests for five minutes, and—and she must have slipped out—"
Vincent raised a single finger.
The command was absolute. The words died in my throat instantly. I clamped my mouth shut, swallowing the rest of my frantic excuses. My chest heaved with suppressed terror and burning anger at my own disastrous luck. I needed this job. My family needed this job. And now, I had just signed our corporate death warrant.
Vincent slowly walked around the edge of his massive mahogany desk.
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The heavy thud of his Italian leather shoes against the floor sounded like a slow-motion drumbeat of doom. He didn't look at me. His cold, piercing eyes remained locked on my daughter.
Then, to my utter disbelief, the most feared man in the tri-state area bent his knees, lowered his imposing frame, and crouched down until he was eye-level with a three-year-old in a yellow sundress.
