Chapter 8
The mass exodus from the cemetery garden was swift and silent. The elite guests, eager to escape the suffocating tension and the terrifying reality of the mafia boss's wrath, gathered their coats and hurried toward their vehicles. Within minutes, the sprawling, luminous garden was entirely empty, save for the abandoned flower baskets, the crushed lilies, the empty marble grave, and the two figures standing near the heavy groundskeeping trolley.
The bright, cinematic lighting cast long shadows across the damp grass. Anselm Valegrove stood perfectly still, the adrenaline of the confrontation slowly ebbing from his system, leaving behind a profound, aching exhaustion. He looked at Amelie Greaves. The twenty-five-year-old housemaid was standing by the folded metal easel, her delicate hands clutching the pristine white apron of her black maid dress.
He walked slowly toward her, his polished leather shoes crunching softly on a crushed white daisy. He stopped just inches away, his towering, masculine presence completely enveloping her smaller frame.
"Are you unharmed, Amelie?" Anselm asked, his deep voice softening into a register he reserved only for her.
"I am fine, sir," Amelie whispered, looking up into his dark, intense eyes. "But the grave..."
She reached out, gently hovering her hand over the tailored fabric of his dark suit, wanting to offer comfort but terrified of overstepping her station again. Without asking permission, Anselm stepped closer, closing the distance until her hand rested lightly against his chest. He could feel her fingers trembling slightly.
Anselm’s breath hitched. He closed his eyes, the simple, tender gesture breaking through the impenetrable armor he had worn since the day his mother died. He reached up with his tattooed hand and gently framed her beautiful, expressive face. The artistic ink stood out sharply against her fair, rosy skin.
"Do you know how long I have waited for someone to look at me with genuine care, rather than fear or political ambition?" Anselm asked, his thumb lightly brushing across her cheekbone.
"You don't have to wait anymore, Anselm," Amelie said softly, dropping his formal title in the heavy intimacy of the moment, her eyes shining with quiet, unwavering devotion. "I am here."
"Are you prepared to tell me everything you saw that night?" Anselm asked, his expression growing serious, the cold reality of the situation returning. "I need to know where they took her."
Amelie nodded, leaning into his warm palm. "It was three nights ago. They used a white utility van, unmarked. I saw the bodyguards loading two heavy, wooden crates into the back. Tallulah was directing them. She told them to take the cargo to the old warehouse district, near the docks. The property your aunt manages."
Anselm’s jaw tightened. The betrayal ran deep. If the crates were taken to a property managed by his own family, it meant the corruption had spread further than the senator's daughter.
"Did she mention a specific warehouse number, Amelie?" Anselm asked gently, desperate for any lead that would reunite him with his mother's remains.
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"I couldn't hear the number," Amelie apologized, tears welling in her eyes again. "I was hiding behind the garden shed. I was so scared they would see me."
"Do you think I will ever let them near you again?" Anselm asked softly, pulling her into a fierce, protective embrace.
