Chapter 6
The gallery erupted into frantic, hushed whispers as Roland Ashcroft escorted the young housemaid away from the demonstration easel. The wealthy art buyers immediately began demanding refunds, their American accents blending into a cacophony of outraged entitlement. Several of the gallery curators scrambled to appease the angry mob, while the heavily armed, suit-clad Mafia bodyguards subtly shifted their positions, forming a protective barrier between the crowd and their boss.
Roland did not look back. He guided Mavis through the arched VIP entryway and down a long, brilliantly lit corridor adorned with more stolen masterpieces. The natural, cinematic light poured through the large skylights, casting sharp shadows over his tailored three-piece suit.
He opened a heavy oak door at the end of the hall, leading into the gallery’s private, soundproofed management office.
"Inside," Roland instructed, his low, raspy voice echoing in the quiet corridor.
Mavis stepped into the office, her flat shoes sinking into the plush, expensive carpet. She kept her hands clasped tightly in front of her stained white apron, her fair and rosy skin still flushed with the residual adrenaline of the confrontation. Her beautiful, movie-star features were tight with apprehension.
Roland closed the door behind them, the heavy lock clicking shut with a definitive thud, cutting off the noise of the ruined exhibition entirely.
He walked around the large mahogany desk and leaned against the edge, crossing his arms over his chest. The small, artistic tattoo on his neck was clearly visible above his collar, a stark reminder of the violent world he commanded. He stared at Mavis for a long, quiet minute.
"How long?" Roland finally asked, breaking the silence. Every word was measured, cold, and dangerous.
"Two years, Mr. Ashcroft," Mavis answered, her voice a quiet, strained whisper. She did not dare look away from his intimidating eyes. "Since the day she hired me to clean the estate."
"Two years," Roland repeated slowly, his jawline tightening. "You painted every canvas in this gallery. You painted the pieces that sold in New York and Chicago."
"Yes, sir," Mavis nodded, her white lace headband shifting slightly. "She kept me in the basement studio. She told me that if I ever stopped painting, or if I ever told anyone the truth, she would use your men to make sure I disappeared. She said you knew about the arrangement."
Roland’s eyes narrowed into terrifying, lethal slits. "She used my name to threaten you."
"Yes, sir," Mavis confirmed, tears threatening to spill once again. "I didn't want to lie. But she said you were a dangerous man, and that you would kill me if I embarrassed her."
Roland pushed himself off the edge of the desk. He took slow, deliberate steps toward the young housemaid. His sheer, masculine presence was overwhelming, yet he moved with a restrained elegance.
"She was right about one thing," Roland murmured softly, stopping just inches away from her. "I am a very dangerous man, Mavis. But I do not punish true talent. And I do not tolerate parasites operating under my roof."
Mavis looked up into his cold, sharp eyes, her breath catching in her throat. The fear that had gripped her for two years began to slowly recede, replaced by a strange, undeniable magnetic pull toward the terrifying Mafia boss.
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"What happens now, sir?" Mavis asked quietly.
"Now," Roland said, reaching out to gently lift her chin with his tattooed fingers, "you are going to take off that apron. You are no longer a maid."
