Alma Reed gently lowered the shawl from the woman seated at the head of the dining table

The private west wing of the mansion was a stark contrast to the opulent, echoing dining hall. The corridors here were lined with plush carpets and warm, muted lighting, designed specifically to be a sanctuary. Nolan walked silently down the hall, supporting Lydia’s weight effortlessly. Alma walked a half-step behind them, her black maid dress swishing softly. Heavy, armed guards nodded respectfully as they passed, their eyes widening slightly as they registered the housemaid walking so closely with the boss and the real wife.

They reached the heavy oak double doors of the master suite. Nolan pushed them open, stepping into a massive room bathed in the soft glow of bedside lamps. He gently lowered Lydia onto the edge of the large, silk-draped bed.

"Will you draw a warm bath for her, Alma?" Nolan asked softly, looking over his shoulder.

"Right away, Mr. Westbrook," Alma said, moving quickly toward the adjoining, luxurious marble bathroom.

While Alma prepared the water and gathered fresh, soft garments, Nolan remained by the bed. He removed his tailored suit jacket, draping it over a chair, then unbuttoned his crisp white shirt at the collar, revealing the artistic neck tattoo. He knelt beside the bed, rubbing Lydia’s cold, bruised wrists between his own heavily tattooed ones, generating friction and warmth for the woman who had spent two weeks in freezing terror.

An hour later, Lydia was scrubbed clean, her hair washed and brushed, dressed in a thick, luxurious cashmere robe. She was tucked securely beneath heavy down comforters. The exhaustion of her imprisonment finally overtook her adrenaline, and she fell into a deep, profound sleep.

Alma stood near the door, her hands folded neatly over her white apron. She had discarded the damp towels and wiped a smudge of soot from her own cheek. She watched the mafia boss—a man feared across the entire eastern seaboard—gently stroke his wife’s hair with a tenderness that defied his ruthless reputation.

Nolan stood up slowly, the tension returning to his broad shoulders. He turned and walked over to Alma, stopping just a few feet away. His cold, perceptive eyes searched her softly oval face.

"How did you know she was targeting her?" Nolan asked, his deep voice a low rumble in the quiet bedroom.

"I was organizing the dry goods in the pantry, sir," Alma answered, her voice barely a whisper. "I heard a muffled sound coming from the old cellar below. Daria had forbidden the staff from going near the sub-corridors, but the sound was too rhythmic. Like someone kicking metal. I took the master keys from the security desk when the guard stepped away."

"Did you consider the danger you were putting yourself in by crossing her in front of the entire commission?" Nolan asked, the extremely short stubble on his jaw catching the lamplight.

"I only considered that a woman was freezing in the dark," Alma said, her expressive brows drawing together in fierce determination. "I couldn't walk away from that."

"Do you realize you are the only reason she is alive today?" Nolan asked, his gaze intensifying, a dark, terrifying warmth bleeding into his cold eyes.

"I just did what anyone should have done," Alma breathed, her heart fluttering wildly at his proximity.

"Have you met many people in my world who do what they should, Alma?" Nolan inquired. He reached out, his refined, tattooed hand hovering for a fraction of a second before he gently tucked a loose strand of dark hair behind her ear.

The touch sent a jolt of electricity straight to her core. Alma swallowed hard, looking up at his angular face. The danger surrounding them was absolute, but the safety she felt in his presence was undeniable.

Before Nolan could offer another question, the heavy, encrypted radio clipped to his belt crackled to life with sudden, violent static.

"Boss?" Marcus's gruff voice called out over the comms. "We have a major situation at the front gates."