Chapter 9
The warm, muted light of the nursery cast intimate shadows across the room. Clara looked up into Hugo’s cold, perceptive eyes, finding a surprising depth of warmth hidden beneath their icy surface. She was a housemaid, a woman paid to clean and serve, yet the mafia boss was looking at her with a level of respect he reserved for his most trusted lieutenants.
"I am just telling you what I see, sir," Clara smiled back, her expressive brows lifting gently.
Hugo stared at her, captivated by the movie-star beauty of her softly tapered face and delicate cheekbones. The sophisticated black maid dress cinched at her waist highlighted the feminine perfection of her silhouette, but it was the quiet courage and unwavering loyalty in her eyes that truly drew him in.
Before Hugo could ask his next question, the quiet of the hallway was broken by approaching footsteps. An older man carrying a sleek black medical bag stepped into the doorway. It was Dr. Evans, the syndicate’s private physician.
"Will you excuse us for a moment, Doctor?" Hugo asked, turning his head slightly. "Will you set up your equipment in my study?"
"Right away, Mr. Caldwell," the doctor nodded respectfully, quickly retreating down the hall.
Hugo turned his attention back to Clara. "Shall we proceed to my study so he can examine your hand?"
"Yes, Mr. Caldwell," Clara nodded, following him out of the nursery.
They walked in silence down the luminous, airy corridors of the mansion. The warm golden light washed over the carved walnut paneling and gilded mirrors. When they reached the heavy oak doors of his private study, Hugo opened it and ushered her inside.
The study was a sanctuary of deep leather, rich mahogany, and walls lined with books. It felt isolated from the rest of the vast estate. Dr. Evans was already preparing bandages and burn cream on the massive desk.
"Will you sit in this chair, Clara?" Hugo asked, gesturing to a plush leather armchair positioned under a bright desk lamp.
Clara sat down, gingerly unwrapping the linen cloth from her right hand. The skin across her palm and fingers was angry, blistering red, a stark contrast to her fair, rosy complexion. The doctor immediately began to clean and treat the burn, working with swift, professional efficiency.
Clara winced slightly as the antiseptic stung the raw skin, her inner brows drawing together.
Hugo, who had been standing near the fireplace, stepped closer. He stood directly beside her chair, his towering, masculine frame casting a protective shadow over her.
"Is the pain severe?" Hugo asked, his deep voice vibrating with quiet concern.
"It's manageable, sir," Clara answered, refusing to complain.
"Will you ensure she receives the strongest pain medication available, Doctor?" Hugo asked, his eyes narrowing as he watched the doctor apply the soothing cream and wrap her hand in fresh, sterile gauze.
"Already done, sir," Dr. Evans replied, packing his bag. "She needs to keep it dry and avoid any physical labor for at least two weeks. The burns are second-degree, but they will heal beautifully if she rests."
"Will you see yourself out, Doctor?" Hugo asked, dismissing the man.
Once the heavy doors closed, leaving them alone again, Hugo walked behind his desk. He poured a small measure of amber liquid into a crystal glass and offered it to Clara.
"Would you care for a drink to calm your nerves before the real war begins?" Hugo asked.
May you like
Clara accepted the crystal glass with her uninjured left hand, her fingers briefly brushing against the refined artistic tattoos on his hand. A jolt of electricity shot up her arm. "Thank you, sir."
"Are you aware of the retaliation that will follow Anastasia's dismissal?" Hugo asked, his tone shifting back to the calculating, serious cadence of a man preparing for absolute war.
