Chapter 7
The profound, ringing silence of the grand dining room settled heavily over the remaining three figures. The cascading crystal chandeliers continued to cast their warm golden light, highlighting the loaded pistol still resting on the polished walnut table.
Maxwell stood alone for a long moment, his broad shoulders rising and falling with a slow, controlled breath. The betrayal was absolute, the upcoming syndicate war with Lucille’s father inevitable, but the immediate, toxic sickness within his home had been surgically removed. Now, he had to secure his son.
He turned his body, his polished leather shoes pivoting seamlessly on the thick rug, and walked toward the two figures remaining by the head table.
Anita was kneeling on the floor, holding Bobby tightly in her arms. The sophisticated black maid dress contrasted sharply with the boy’s formal dinner jacket. Bobby had buried his face in the crook of Anita’s neck, his small body trembling from the shouting and the sudden violence of Lucille’s removal. Anita was gently stroking the child's hair, her softly oval face etched with deep, maternal relief.
Maxwell stopped beside them, his imposing, masculine frame casting a protective shadow over the housemaid and his son.
"Are you unharmed, Bobby?" Maxwell asked, his deep voice softening significantly, losing its lethal, interrogative edge.
Bobby turned his head, his fair, rosy cheeks stained with fresh tears. He looked at the towering mafia boss, his eyes searching for reassurance. "I'm sorry, Daddy. Are you going to hate me now?"
"Would I ever hate you for being tricked by a monster?" Maxwell asked, reaching out to gently cup the boy’s cheek.
Bobby sniffled, leaning into his father's large, tattooed hand. "No."
"Are you a brave boy?" Maxwell asked, his thumb brushing away a tear.
"Yes," Bobby nodded, his small chin trembling.
Maxwell shifted his gaze to Anita. The beautiful housemaid was watching him, her expressive brows drawn together in quiet empathy. She had risked her job, her physical safety, and her life by exposing the weapon and standing against the fiancée of a mafia boss. The fierce loyalty she had displayed was a rare, precious commodity in Maxwell's dark, violent world.
"Are you injured, Anita?" Maxwell asked, his cold, perceptive eyes scanning her delicate features.
"No, Mr. Crowne," Anita answered softly, her elegant posture unwavering even as she knelt on the floor. "I am perfectly fine."
"Will you take Bobby up to the secure wing and stay with him until I come for him?" Maxwell asked, holding her gaze with an intensity that sent a sudden, warm flutter through Anita’s chest.
"Yes, Mr. Crowne," Anita replied, her rosy cheeks flushing slightly under his intense focus.
Maxwell stood up, watching as the beautiful housemaid took his son's hand and led him out of the luminous dining room through a discrete service door. The impending war with the Shaw syndicate loomed over him, but for the first time in six months, his house finally felt like a home again.
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He looked down at the loaded pistol resting near his plate.
"Shall we prepare for what comes next?" Maxwell asked the empty room, turning to begin his preparations for absolute war.
