Chapter 9
The warm, muted light of the nursery cast intimate shadows across the room. Maren looked up into Atticus'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.
"They were afraid of her, Mr. Rowan," Maren answered honestly, keeping her voice low so as not to wake the sleeping boy. "She had a way of making the staff feel completely worthless."
"Did she ever lay her hands on you, Maren?" Atticus asked, his jawline tightening sharply, the stubble bristling as a dangerous, protective edge crept into his deep voice.
"No, sir," Maren replied quickly, shaking her head. "It was mostly words. Threats. She wanted everyone to know she was in control."
"Should I have paid closer attention to the shadows in my own home?" Atticus asked, looking away, a rare expression of guilt crossing his handsome face. "Did my ambition blind me to the suffering of my son?"
Maren felt a sudden, desperate urge to comfort the powerful man standing before her. She took a tentative step closer, her slender figure moving with elegant grace.
"You are a very busy man, sir. You were building an empire for him," Maren said softly. "You couldn't have known."
"Are you defending my failures, Maren?" Atticus asked, looking back at her, a faint, almost imperceptible smile touching the corners of his mouth.
"I am just telling you what I see," Maren smiled back, her expressive brows lifting gently.
Atticus stared at her, captivated by the movie-star beauty of her softly rounded cheeks and delicate nose. The sophisticated black maid dress cinched at her waist highlighted the feminine perfection of her silhouette, but it was the quiet strength and unwavering loyalty in her eyes that truly drew him in.
"Shall we retire to my study?" Atticus asked, gesturing toward the door. "Is there much we still need to discuss regarding the events of tonight?"
"Yes, Mr. Rowan," Maren 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, Atticus 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. Atticus walked behind his desk, pouring a small measure of amber liquid into a crystal glass. He offered it to Maren.
"Would you care for a drink to calm your nerves?" Atticus asked.
Maren accepted the glass, her fingers briefly brushing against the refined artistic tattoos on his hand. A jolt of electricity shot up her arm. "Thank you."
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Atticus poured a glass for himself and leaned against the edge of the desk, crossing his long legs at the ankles. He took a slow sip, his eyes never leaving her face.
"How long have you known she despised him?" Atticus asked, his tone shifting back to the calculating, serious cadence of a man preparing for war.
