Chapter 7
The silence in the grand dining hall was absolute, a heavy, oppressive weight that smothered the bright, airy elegance of the room. The cascading crystal chandeliers continued to bathe the ivory-paneled walls in a soft, elegant warmth, but the atmosphere had turned as cold as a morgue.
Camille was completely isolated, standing alone opposite the unified front of the Rourke patriarch and the brave housemaid.
"You can't do this, Maxwell," Camille hissed, panic mutating into cornered, vicious entitlement. "My family brings the southern ports to this alliance. If you humiliate me, my father will declare war. He will shut down your supply lines."
"Will he declare war?" Maxwell asked, tilting his head with dangerous curiosity. The loose strands of wavy hair falling over his forehead contrasted violently with the absolute, apocalyptic death promised in his cold eyes. "Or will he thank me for returning his defective, cruel daughter before she caused a war he could not possibly win?"
Camille’s mouth dropped open. The color drained entirely from her lips. She realized she had absolutely no power left in the room. The alliance was dead, severed by her own psychopathic jealousy.
"Get your hands off me!" Camille screamed as two massive men in tailored dark suits stepped forward and grabbed her by the arms. She thrashed wildly, her sculpted satin gown twisting awkwardly around her legs. "You are choosing a servant and a filthy mutt over a queen! You are a fool, Maxwell!"
"Are empires built by men who allow innocence to be tortured in their own homes?" Maxwell inquired, entirely unaffected by her venom.
He turned his back on her, an ultimate gesture of dismissal. Camille's furious, terrified screams echoed through the bright, airy room as she was dragged away, fading only when the heavy double doors slammed shut.
Maxwell turned his full attention back to the beautiful housemaid and the dog. The cold, terrifying edge of the Mafia boss softened considerably as he looked down at Baxter.
The elderly Labrador let out a soft whine, pressing his damp head against Ada's leg.
Maxwell slowly dropped to one knee again, entirely disregarding his tailored dark three-piece suit. He reached out with his heavily tattooed hand, his fingers moving with profound, unexpected gentleness. He gently stroked Baxter's wet, graying head.
"Are you safe now, old friend?" Maxwell asked, his deep voice returning to a warm, comforting rumble.
Baxter thumped his tail weakly against the marble floor.
"Will you allow my private veterinarian to examine him immediately, Ada?" Maxwell asked, looking up into the housemaid's expressive eyes.
"Of course, Mr. Rourke," Ada replied, her American accent steadying as the adrenaline surged through her veins. "He is exhausted and very cold."
"Do you understand the magnitude of the debt I owe you tonight?" Maxwell asked, looking deeply into her softly oval face.
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Ada’s fair, rosy cheeks flushed a delicate pink under his intense, perceptive gaze. "I only did what was right, sir. I couldn't leave him in the river."
"Is bravery not the rarest commodity in our world?" Maxwell questioned, bowing his head slightly in a profound gesture of respect.
