Chapter 7
Within ninety seconds, the heavy walnut doors swung open, and four of Atticus's heavily armed security men entered the bright, luminous dining room. They wore dark suits and grim expressions, moving with ruthless efficiency. They hauled Cressida to her feet, ignoring her hysterical screams and desperate pleas. They dragged her out of the room, her sculpted silk gown tearing as she struggled against their grip.
The doors closed, sealing the room once more. The chaotic noise of her eviction faded down the marble corridors, leaving the grand hall steeped in a profound, ringing quiet. The tall candles flickered inside their crystal hurricane holders, casting warm, golden light over the untouched banquet.
Atticus stood silently for a moment, his broad shoulders rising and falling with a slow, controlled breath. The betrayal was severe, the upcoming syndicate war inevitable, but the immediate threat to his home had been surgically removed.
He turned his attention away from the doors and looked back at the two people who mattered most.
Maren was kneeling on the thick patterned rug, holding Evan tightly in her arms. The sophisticated black maid dress contrasted sharply with the boy’s formal dinner suit. Evan had buried his face in the crook of Maren’s neck, his small body trembling from the shouting and the sudden violence of Cressida’s removal. Maren was gently stroking his hair, her softly oval face etched with deep, maternal concern.
Atticus walked toward them, the heavy tread of his polished leather shoes muffled by the luxurious rug. He stopped beside them, dropping smoothly to one knee. His imposing, masculine frame cast a protective shadow over the housemaid and his son.
"Are you unharmed, Evan?" Atticus asked, his deep voice softening significantly, losing its lethal edge.
Evan turned his head, his fair, rosy cheeks stained with fresh tears. He looked at his father, his eyes searching for reassurance. "I'm okay, Daddy. Did I do a bad thing?"
"Would telling the truth to protect your family ever be considered a bad thing?" Atticus asked, reaching out to gently cup his son’s cheek.
Evan sniffled, a small, fragile smile finally breaking through his distress. "No."
"Are you a brave boy?" Atticus asked, his thumb brushing away a tear.
"Yes, Daddy," Evan nodded, leaning his small head against his father's large, tattooed hand.
Atticus shifted his gaze to Maren. The beautiful housemaid was watching him, her expressive brows drawn together in quiet empathy. She had risked her job, her safety, and her life by standing with Evan against the fiancée of a mafia boss. The loyalty she had displayed was a rare, precious commodity in Atticus's dark world.
"Are you injured, Maren?" Atticus asked, his cold, perceptive eyes scanning her delicate features for any sign of distress.
"No, Mr. Rowan," Maren answered softly, her elegant posture unwavering even as she knelt on the floor. "I am perfectly fine."
"Will you take Evan up to the nursery and stay with him until he falls asleep?" Atticus asked, his tone conveying a deep, unspoken gratitude.
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"Of course, sir," Maren nodded, gently helping the boy to his feet.
"Will you come to my study once he is settled?" Atticus asked, holding her gaze with an intensity that sent a sudden, warm flutter through Maren’s chest.
