The Vanderbilts' conversation was a blur of stock portfolios and European vacations. Leo nodded, smiled, murmured appropriate agreements, his mind a million miles away – or rather, just across the room, tracking Dominic's predatory movements and Silas's unwavering vigilance. He felt like a marionette, his strings pulled taut by Dominic's invisible hand.
He was mid-sentence, complimenting Mrs. Vanderbilt's emerald necklace, when Dominic's voice cut through the ambient chatter like a shard of ice. It wasn't loud, but it carried the weight of absolute authority, silencing the immediate group around him. Leo's blood ran cold. He knew that tone. It preceded storms.
He turned slightly, his champagne flute forgotten in his hand. Dominic stood near the bar, facing Charles Henderson. Henderson's face was flushed, his posture rigid with affront. Dominic wore a smile, but it didn't reach his flint-grey eyes. It was the smile of a cat toying with a cornered mouse.
"…misunderstanding, Charles, surely," Dominic was saying, his voice deceptively smooth. "My projections were quite clear. Perhaps your team lacks the… acuity… to interpret complex data." He took a slow sip of his bourbon, his gaze never leaving Henderson's. The insult hung in the air, deliberate and cutting.
Henderson sputtered. "Now see here, Dominic! Those projections were borderline fraudulent! My analysts–"
"Your analysts," Dominic interrupted, his voice dropping lower, colder, "are clearly incompetent. Or perhaps you simply lack the capital to play at this level? A pity. Rossi Industries requires partners with vision… and resources." He gestured dismissively with his glass, a droplet of amber liquid escaping to stain the pristine cuff of Henderson's shirt.
The insult to Henderson's financial standing was the final straw. Red-faced, Henderson took an impulsive step forward, jabbing a finger towards Dominic's chest. "You arrogant son of a–"
Leo didn't see Dominic move. One moment he was sipping bourbon, the next, his free hand shot out with viper speed. Not a punch, but a brutal, open-handed *smack* across Henderson's face. The sound was shockingly loud in the sudden silence – a sharp, wet *crack*.
Henderson reeled back, crashing into a waiter carrying a tray of canapés. Crystal shattered, delicate food scattered across the polished floor. Gasps rippled through the crowd. Henderson clutched his cheek, staring at Dominic in stunned, humiliated fury, a trickle of blood appearing at the corner of his lip.
Dominic didn't even look at the chaos he'd caused. He straightened his cuff, his expression one of mild annoyance, as if swatting a fly. "Security," he said, his voice cutting through the frozen tableau. "Mr. Henderson appears to have had too much to drink. Escort him out. Gently."
It wasn't Silas who moved first; two other security personnel materialized instantly, flanking the spluttering Henderson. But Leo's eyes were locked on Silas. He hadn't flinched at the slap. He hadn't moved to intercept Henderson's aborted lunge. His job wasn't to prevent Dominic's violence; it was to contain its fallout. Silas stood rigid, his gaze sweeping the crowd, assessing the threat level, ensuring no one else intervened. His face was a mask of professional detachment, but Leo saw it – the almost imperceptible tightening of his jaw, the fractional narrowing of his grey eyes as they flicked from Henderson's bleeding lip to Dominic's coldly satisfied expression. A flicker of… something. Disgust? Contempt? It was gone in an instant, replaced by watchful neutrality.
Dominic turned, his gaze scanning the room, landing briefly on Leo. It wasn't a look of reassurance; it was a reminder. *See? See what happens?* Leo felt a fresh wave of icy dread wash over him. The carefully constructed illusion of the gala lay shattered like the crystal on the floor. The monster was no longer lurking beneath the surface; it had roared, and everyone had seen its teeth.
The party attempted to resume, a forced gaiety settling over the guests like dust. Conversations were hushed, strained. Leo felt physically ill. He drifted away from the Vanderbilts, seeking the relative sanctuary near the terrace doors again, the city lights below offering no comfort now, only a reminder of the sheer drop. He needed air, but stepping onto the terrace alone wasn't an option. Dominic's rules.
He leaned his forehead against the cool glass, closing his eyes. The image of Dominic's hand connecting with Henderson's face played on a loop behind his eyelids. It was a visceral reminder of the power Dominic wielded, the casual brutality that underpinned his world. Leo's own jaw ached in phantom sympathy. *That could be me. It has been me.*
"Mr. Moretti-Rossi?"
Leo jerked upright, heart hammering. Silas stood beside him, close enough that Leo could smell the faint, clean scent of soap and something metallic, like gun oil, beneath his cologne. His presence was a shockwave, a sudden, solid reality in Leo's spiraling panic.
"Y-yes, Silas?" Leo stammered, hating the tremor in his voice.
Silas's gaze was direct, unsettlingly intense up close. He held out a fresh champagne flute. "Mr. Rossi thought you might need this." His voice was low, gravelly, perfectly professional. But his eyes… they weren't scanning the room now. They were fixed on Leo, taking in the pallor of his skin, the slight tremor in his hands, the sheen of sweat on his temple. There was no pity there, but a profound, unnerving *assessment*. He saw. He *always* saw.
Leo took the glass, his fingers brushing Silas's for a fleeting second. A jolt, electric and terrifying, shot up Leo's arm. He fumbled, the flute slipping.
Silas moved with inhuman speed. His large hand closed over Leo's, steadying the glass before a drop could spill. His grip was firm, warm, encompassing Leo's cold fingers completely. It lasted only a heartbeat, two at most. But in that suspended moment, the noise of the party faded. Leo felt the calluses on Silas's palm, the surprising strength held in check. He felt the heat radiating from him, a stark contrast to the ice in Leo's own veins. He looked up, meeting Silas's gaze directly.
The grey eyes held no professional detachment now. They were dark, stormy, reflecting the city lights and something else – a fierce, protective intensity that stole Leo's breath. It wasn't just duty. It was a shared understanding of the ugliness they'd just witnessed, a silent acknowledgment of Leo's fear. *I see you. I see what he is. I see what he does to you.*
Then it was gone. Silas released his hand smoothly, stepping back half a pace, the impassive mask sliding back into place. "Careful, sir," he said, his voice back to its usual low monotone.
Leo clutched the champagne flute like a lifeline, the spot where Silas's hand had covered his burning. His heart pounded against his ribs, not just with residual fear, but with something new, something dangerous and intoxicating. It was a spark, tiny but impossibly bright, ignited in the suffocating darkness of the gilded cage. It was the spark of being truly *seen*, and the terrifying, exhilarating realization that the silent sentinel might not be as distant as he appeared.
"Thank you, Silas," Leo managed, his voice barely a whisper.
Silas gave a curt nod, his gaze already shifting back to the room, scanning for threats. But Leo knew. Something fundamental had shifted. The cage walls hadn't fallen, but a crack had appeared. And through it, for one breathtaking moment, Leo had glimpsed something other than captivity. He had glimpsed possibility. And it terrified him more than Dominic's rage ever could. He took a shaky sip of the champagne, the bubbles exploding on his tongue like tiny detonations, echoing the turmoil within. The spark was lit. Now, it just needed fuel.