Chapter 8
Panic, raw and unadulterated, surged through Estelle’s veins. The reality of Lawrence Crowe’s words shattered the last fragile remnants of her sanity. She was not going to walk out of this study. The mafia boss had meticulously cornered her, and there was no legal or emotional maneuver left to save her life.
With a feral, guttural scream, Estelle scrambled up from the Persian rug. Her eyes darted around the dim study, searching frantically for a weapon, an exit, anything. Her gaze landed on the heavy, silver letter opener resting on Lawrence’s mahogany desk—a long, sharp blade shaped like a dagger.
She lunged for it.
Cleo shouted a warning, throwing her body entirely over Hugo on the leather sofa, shielding the boy with her own back.
Estelle grabbed the silver handle. She didn't turn toward Lawrence. She knew she couldn't overpower him. Instead, she spun wildly toward the sofa, aiming the sharp blade directly at the housemaid who had ruined her life.
“I’ll kill you first!” Estelle shrieked, raising the blade high above her head.
Lawrence moved with preternatural, terrifying speed. The heavy, tailored fabric of his dark suit blurred as he crossed the distance in two massive strides. He didn't flinch. He didn't draw a weapon. He simply reached out with his heavily tattooed hands and intercepted her wrist in mid-air.
His grip was like a steel vice. Estelle let out a gasp of pain as Lawrence squeezed, the bones in her wrist grinding against each other.
“Did you truly believe you could strike a woman in my house and walk away with your hands intact?” Lawrence asked, his voice barely a whisper, yet vibrating with an apocalyptic fury.
He twisted her arm sharply downward. The silver letter opener clattered uselessly onto the floor. Without missing a beat, Lawrence swept his polished leather shoe behind her legs, driving her brutally down onto the Persian rug. He pinned her there, his powerful shoulders squared, placing a heavy knee on her back to hold her firmly in place.
Estelle sobbed hysterically, her face mashed against the carpet, her sculpted satin gown tearing under the strain of the physical struggle. “Let me go! Please, Lawrence, please!”
Lawrence did not increase the pressure, but he didn't release her either. He looked over his shoulder at the sofa.
“Are you unharmed, Cleo? Is my son safe?”
Cleo slowly sat up, keeping Hugo tucked tightly against her side. The housemaid’s softly oval face was pale, but her dark eyes were steady. She checked the boy quickly. “We are entirely unharmed, sir.”
Lawrence turned his attention back to the weeping, broken woman beneath his knee. The cold, observant eyes of the mafia boss were devoid of any mercy or hesitation. He was no longer a grieving husband or a betrayed fiancé; he was the executioner of the underworld.
“Did you think a piece of silver could save you from the consequences of your own actions? Did you believe I would allow you to harm the only two people in this house who have shown true loyalty to my blood?”
Estelle wept, struggling weakly against his immense weight. “I’m sorry... I’m so sorry...”
Lawrence slowly stood up, grabbing Estelle by the collar of her ruined gown and hauling her to her feet. He dragged her effortlessly toward the center of the room, tossing her onto the floor in front of the unlit fireplace.
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He straightened his vest, adjusting his signet ring.
“Will your apologies bring the mother of my child back to life, Estelle? Or are they merely the pathetic whimpers of a coward facing the gallows?”
