Chapter 5
The silence in the grand dining room was a physical weight, pressing down on the cream damask linens and the low arrangements of cream roses. The flickering reflections of the tall ivory candles danced across the abandoned gold-rimmed porcelain.
Lucian stood silently for a moment, listening to the sharp clicking of Celina’s heels fading rapidly down the marble hallway. He adjusted the cuffs of his tailored suit, his powerful shoulders relaxing imperceptibly. The anger was still a cold, burning furnace in his chest, but the immediate threat had been excised.
He turned his attention back to Della. The beautiful housemaid was leaning heavily against a dining chair, her hands gripping the wood so tightly her knuckles were white. The terror of the confrontation and the overwhelming relief of survival had completely shattered her polished composure. Her expressive brows were drawn together, and tears streamed freely down her delicate cheekbones.
"Are you injured, Della?" Lucian asked, his deep voice softening significantly as he approached her.
"No, sir," Della breathed, looking up into his handsome, angular face. "I am just... I am sorry I ruined your dinner."
"Do you believe bringing me the truth is an act of ruin?" Lucian asked, reaching out with his tattooed hand. He gently grasped her elbow, his touch surprisingly warm and steadying.
"She said if I told you, she would have me blacklisted from every estate in the city," Della confessed, her American accent trembling. "But when I saw Beatrice setting the table again tonight... I couldn't watch you eat a catered meal while she sat alone."
"Did you risk your livelihood for a woman who is not your blood?" Lucian asked, his cold eyes studying the elegant, slender figure before him.
"She is a mother who misses her son, Mr. Ashford," Della replied, wiping a tear from her cheek. "That deserves respect."
Lucian stared at her. The housemaid in the sophisticated black dress possessed a profound, quiet wisdom that completely eclipsed the shallow, venomous nature of the woman he had almost married.
"Will you follow me?" Lucian asked, releasing her arm gently.
"Where are we going, sir?" Della asked, confused.
"Are we not going to see my mother?" Lucian asked, offering a small, incredibly rare smile that transformed his intimidating features.
Della’s heart fluttered. She nodded quickly, smoothing the wrinkles from her white apron. "Yes, sir."
Lucian led her out of the dining room and down the long, luminous corridors of the mansion. The bright, airy colors of the estate felt less like a museum now and more like a home waking up from a long, dark slumber. They bypassed the grand staircase and headed toward the private guest wing, a secluded area that Celina had heavily restricted.
As they reached the heavy oak door of Beatrice’s suite, Lucian paused. He looked at the refined artistic tattoos on his own hands, resting against the dark fabric of his suit. He had built an empire of blood and fear so that he would never have to answer to anyone, yet he had allowed a cruel, petty woman to isolate him from the only person who had ever truly loved him without condition.
"Will you open the door, Della?" Lucian asked, his voice thick with an emotion he rarely allowed himself to feel.
Della reached out and turned the brass handle, pushing the door open gently.
The suite was bathed in soft, warm light from a bedside lamp. Sitting at a small, round dining table near the window was Beatrice. The elderly woman had fair, rosy skin lined with age, and soft white hair. On the table before her were two place settings. One bowl of soup was half-eaten; the other, resting directly across from her, was completely untouched.
Beatrice looked up as the door opened. When her eyes landed on the towering, masculine figure of her son standing in the doorway, the spoon slipped from her trembling fingers and clattered onto the floor.
"Lucian?" Beatrice whispered, her voice fragile and filled with disbelief.
"Have you been waiting long, Mother?" Lucian asked, stepping into the room.
May you like
Beatrice stood up, her knees weak, and threw her arms around her son’s thick neck, sobbing openly. Lucian closed his eyes, his powerful arms wrapping fiercely around the frail woman. For a fleeting moment, the cold, ruthless mafia boss vanished, replaced entirely by a desperately guilty, loving son.
Della watched them, a soft, genuine smile touching her gently curved lips. She quietly backed out of the room, gently pulling the heavy oak door shut, leaving the mother and son to the privacy of their reunion. The war with the Voss family was looming on the horizon, but for tonight, the Ashford empire had finally found its heart again.
