Chapter 8
The sprawling mansion was eerily quiet as Anita led Bobby up the sweeping marble staircase. The luminous, airy glow of the first floor gave way to the softer, more muted lighting of the private family wing. The warm golden hues of the wall sconces guided them past gilded mirrors and heavy silk curtains, leading them to the massive oak doors of Bobby’s room.
Anita helped Bobby out of his formal dinner clothes, hanging the dark jacket carefully in the closet and trading his stiff shirt for a pair of soft, cotton pajamas. The little boy was exhausted, the adrenaline of the evening leaving him heavy-limbed and lethargic.
Anita pulled the thick duvet back and tucked him in, sitting on the edge of the mattress. She smoothed Bobby's hair, her heart aching for the trauma the child had endured, carrying the horrifying secret of his grandfather's murder alone.
"Are the bad men going to come here?" Bobby asked, his eyelids drooping heavily. He understood enough of the syndicate life to know that Lucille’s violent departure meant danger.
"Do you think anyone could ever get past your father to hurt you?" Anita asked softly, borrowing Maxwell's method of questioning to comfort the child.
Bobby smiled sleepily, his fair skin glowing in the dim light. "No. Daddy is the strongest."
"He loves you very much, Bobby," Anita whispered, kissing his forehead. "You are safe."
Within minutes, the boy’s breathing evened out into a deep, peaceful rhythm. Anita remained seated on the bed for a long time, watching him sleep. Her graceful posture finally relaxed, the tension bleeding out of her slender figure. She closed her eyes, replaying the terrifying, awe-inspiring way Maxwell had defended them both.
A quiet, rhythmic tapping on the open doorframe broke the silence.
Anita opened her eyes and turned her head. Maxwell stood in the doorway. He had discarded his suit jacket and unbuttoned his waistcoat, looking slightly less formal but infinitely more dangerous. The loose strands of dark hair fell over his forehead, and his powerful shoulders leaned casually against the wooden frame. His perceptive eyes were fixed on her.
Anita stood up quickly, smoothing her white apron over her short A-line skirt. "He just fell asleep, sir."
Maxwell stepped quietly into the room, his polished shoes making no sound. He walked over to the bed, looking down at his son with a profound, unspoken affection. He reached out, his beautifully tattooed fingers gently adjusting the blanket over the boy's shoulders.
"Does he look peaceful to you, Anita?" Maxwell asked in a hushed whisper.
"He does, sir," Anita replied, standing close enough to smell the faint, intoxicating scent of his expensive cologne mixed with a hint of dark whiskey.
"Do you know that you are the reason he feels safe enough to rest?" Maxwell asked, turning his head to look down at her.
Anita’s breath caught in her throat. His physical proximity was overwhelming. The sheer, rugged beauty of his angular face and high-bridged nose was breathtaking up close.
"I just did what anyone would do," Anita deflected modestly, her rosy cheeks flushing under his intense gaze.
"Do you truly believe that anyone else in that dining room would have defied my fiancée to expose a murder weapon?" Maxwell asked softly.
"They were afraid of her, Mr. Crowne," Anita answered honestly.
"Should I have paid closer attention to the shadows in my own home?" Maxwell asked, looking away, a rare expression of deep guilt crossing his handsome face. "Did my ambition blind me to the cruelty happening under my own roof?"
Anita felt a sudden, desperate urge to comfort the powerful man standing before her. She took a tentative step closer, her elegant posture radiating quiet strength.
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"You were building an empire to protect him, sir. You couldn't have known," Anita said softly.
"Are you defending my failures, Anita?" Maxwell asked, looking back at her, a faint, almost imperceptible smile touching the corners of his mouth.
