Chapter 6
Damian stood perfectly still for a long moment. The tension slowly bled out of his powerful shoulders. He turned his head, his thick, slightly wavy hair catching the light of the crystal chandeliers, and looked across the room to where Clara was standing.
Clara was shaking. Her sophisticated black maid dress felt incredibly thin in the aftermath of the violence. She had just witnessed the destruction of a massive mafia alliance, all because she had brought a desperate grandmother to the dinner table. She looked at the mafia boss, terrified of the impending war that was surely about to consume the estate.
Damian walked slowly back to the table. He dropped to one knee on the cream marble floor, completely ignoring the crease it put in his expensive trousers, bringing himself down to Margaret's eye level.
"Are you harmed anywhere, Mrs. Ellis?" Damian asked, his deep voice softening just a fraction, losing the lethal edge it had carried moments before. He gently reached out, resting his tattooed hand on the armrest of the velvet chair.
"I just want my Emma back," Margaret whispered, her pale eyes looking into Damian's cold, observant ones. "She told me she gave her to a family in the north... a family with a lot of money and a big house. Please, Mr. Westbrook, you have to find her."
"Would I ever let a child remain lost while there is breath in my lungs?" Damian asked, his chest tightening with a cold, terrifying anger. He looked at the old woman, realizing how deeply his charity had been corrupted to terrorize the innocent.
Margaret let out a small, broken sigh and leaned back into the chair, clutching the knitted sweater to her chest.
Damian stood up slowly, the cold fury settling back into his bones. He turned his attention back to Clara.
"Are you injured, Clara?" Damian asked quietly, his perceptive eyes searching her delicately featured face.
"I am unharmed, sir," Clara answered, her voice trembling as she kept her hands folded over her neatly tied white apron. "But... I know what just happened. I know the Arden family will come for you because we spoke."
"Do you believe I would allow a woman who traffics children to remain in my home out of fear of her father?" Damian asked, a flicker of profound, protective warmth entering his cold eyes as he looked at her.
"I didn't know what to expect, Mr. Westbrook," Clara whispered, her expressive eyes drawing together. "I just found Margaret crying at the service gate. She had been standing in the freezing rain for hours, begging the guards to let her see Celia. When she told me what happened... I knew I couldn't let you marry her."
"Did you think a monster would punish the only person with the courage to save a child's life?" Damian asked gently.
He didn't walk away. He stood there, his towering masculine frame casting a long shadow in the golden light. The rigid boundaries of class, wealth, and danger had been completely obliterated in the span of a single evening.
"Will you accompany us upstairs, Clara?" Damian asked, his gaze lingering on her softly oval face. "Do you think I trust anyone else in this house to watch over Margaret tonight?"
"I will come," Clara said softly, the reality of her new position settling heavily upon her.
"Are you prepared for the war that begins tomorrow?" Damian asked, turning his broad shoulders toward the heavy mahogany doors.
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The private west wing of the mansion was a stark contrast to the opulent, echoing dining hall. The corridors here were lined with plush carpets and warm, muted lighting, designed specifically to be a sanctuary. Damian walked silently down the hall, keeping his pace slow for the elderly woman. Clara walked a half-step behind them, her black maid dress swishing softly. Heavy, armed guards nodded respectfully as they passed, their eyes widening slightly as they registered the housemaid walking so closely with the boss.
They reached the heavy oak door of a luxurious guest suite. Damian pushed it open, stepping into the room bathed in the soft glow of a bedside lamp. He gently guided Margaret toward the large, plush bed.
