Chapter 3 - The Snake at the Gate
Graham did not turn around immediately. He deliberately took his time, stepping between Victor and Beatrice, effectively erasing her from his cousin's sightline.
"You're early, Victor," Graham said, his voice flat and devoid of warmth. "The council doesn't meet for another two hours."
Victor chuckled, taking a step closer down the carpeted hallway. His eyes darted past Graham's shoulder, trying to catch another glimpse of Beatrice. "Can't blame a man for being curious. The whole family is talking about it. The great Graham Russo, letting a two-hundred-pound housemaid run the most secure wing in Long Island. Mrs. Gable says she's got you wrapped around her finger."
Beatrice felt her blood run cold. Mrs. Gable was leaking information to Victor.
"Mrs. Gable is an employee," Graham said evenly. "And you are standing in a corridor where you don't belong."
Victor’s smirk faltered slightly, replaced by a dark, arrogant glint. "I belong anywhere the Russo money is spent, cousin. Aunt Isabella controls thirty percent of the port holdings. The syndicate elders are tired of signing off on proxies for a woman who thinks the shower is a mortar shell. We want a doctor’s assessment tonight."
"She has been assessed by my doctors," Graham replied.
"Your doctors are on your payroll," Victor snapped, dropping the friendly facade. "The council wants an independent evaluation. If she’s gone, her seat defaults to the senior board—which means me."
Victor tried to step past Graham, reaching out a hand toward the brass handle of the West Wing oak doors. "Let me see her, Graham. Just five minutes. Let me see if she even knows what year it is."
He never reached the handle.
In a move so fast it defied his massive frame, Graham grabbed Victor by the throat and slammed him violently against the paneled wall.
The heavy thud echoed through the hallway. Framed portraits rattled. Victor gasped for air, his feet dangling two inches off the oriental rug as Graham’s fingers dug into his windpipe.
"Listen to me very carefully, Victor," Graham said, his voice dropping into a deadly whisper that raised the hair on the back of Beatrice’s neck. "You touch that door again, and I will cut your fingers off one by one and mail them to your father in Florida. Do you understand?"
Victor’s face turned a mottled purple. He clawed frantically at Graham’s wrist, nodding his head as best he could while being strangled.
Graham released him abruptly.
Victor crumpled to his knees, coughing violently and clutching his neck.
"Get downstairs," Graham commanded, not even looking at his cousin as he straightened his cuffs. "Wait in the library until the elders arrive."
Victor dragged himself up, his dark eyes burning with pure, unadulterated hatred. He looked past Graham, locking his gaze onto Beatrice, who was standing frozen against the doorframe.
"You," Victor choked out, pointing a trembling finger at her. "Enjoy your little kingdom, fat girl. When Graham falls, I’m going to make sure you go back to scrubbing toilets in Queens—after I finish with you."
"Victor," Graham said quietly.
Victor froze at the tone.
"Say one more word to her," Graham said, "and you won't make it to the library."
Victor swallowed hard, backed away three paces, and then turned and hurried down the grand staircase into the darkness of the lower level.
Silence settled over the hallway like heavy snow.
Graham turned back to Beatrice. His hands were clenched into white-knuckled fists, his chest rising and falling with heavy, controlled breaths. He looked at her, searching her face for fear or disgust after witnessing his violence.
"Does he scare you?" Graham asked bluntly.
Beatrice looked at the man who had just nearly choked his own cousin to death for her and his mother. She took a slow, deep breath, steadying her trembling hands inside her blue apron.
"Men like him used to scare me in the subways every day," Beatrice said softly. "They think because I take up space, I’m easy to break. But you didn't let him touch me."
Graham stared at her. For the first time since she had met him, the flint-hard coldness in his eyes melted into something raw, dark, and intensely vulnerable.
"No one touches you in this house," Graham said, stepping so close she could feel the heat radiating off his body. "No one."
He reached out, his large, calloused hand cupping the back of her neck, gently pulling her forward until her forehead rested against his chest. It wasn't a sexual gesture; it was a desperate, grounding anchor for a man who carried the weight of an empire on his shoulders.
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Beatrice hesitated for a fraction of a second before placing her hands gently against his sides, feeling the powerful, rapid beat of his heart beneath his shirt.
"Go back inside, Beatrice," Graham whispered against her hair. "The night is going to get ugly."
