Chapter 7
Two massive security guards in dark suits entered the luminous dining room. Their expressions were entirely blank, their American accents silent as they marched forward without a word. They grabbed Felicity by the arms, hauling her roughly to her feet. She shrieked, trashing wildly against their iron grip, but they were unyielding.
"You are a dead man, Ambrose!" she screamed as they dragged her backward through the heavy mahogany doors. "You will all burn for this!"
"Will you convey my deepest regards to your father?" Ambrose asked quietly.
He did not answer her further screams. He watched in silence as the heavy oak doors slammed shut behind her, severing the alliance and guaranteeing a bloody mafia war. The room was finally quiet again, the only sound the gentle crackle of the ornate marble fireplace.
Ambrose stood alone near the head table for a long moment, his broad shoulders rising and falling with a slow, controlled breath. The betrayal was absolute, the upcoming syndicate war with Felicity’s father inevitable, but the immediate, toxic sickness within his home had been surgically removed.
He turned his body, his polished leather shoes pivoting seamlessly on the thick rug, and walked toward the two figures remaining by the table.
Hollie was kneeling on the floor, holding Maisie tightly in her arms. The sophisticated black maid dress contrasted sharply with the girl’s formal party dress. Maisie had buried her face in the crook of Hollie’s neck, her small body trembling from the shouting and the sudden violence of Felicity’s removal. Hollie was gently stroking the child's hair, her softly oval face etched with deep, maternal concern.
Ambrose stopped beside them, his imposing, masculine frame casting a protective shadow over the housemaid and his daughter.
"Are you unharmed, Maisie?" Ambrose asked, his deep voice softening significantly, losing its lethal, interrogative edge.
Maisie turned her head, her fair, rosy cheeks stained with fresh tears. She looked at her father, her eyes searching for reassurance. "I'm sorry, Daddy. I didn't mean to ruin the dinner."
"Would telling the truth to protect your place in this family ever be considered a crime in this house?" Ambrose asked, reaching out to gently cup his daughter’s cheek.
Maisie sniffled, leaning into his large, tattooed hand. "No."
"Are you a brave girl?" Ambrose asked, his thumb brushing away a tear.
"Yes, Daddy," Maisie nodded, her small chin trembling.
Ambrose shifted his gaze to Hollie. 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 holding Maisie's hand and corroborating the child's story against the fiancée of a mafia boss. The loyalty she had displayed was a rare, precious commodity in Ambrose's dark, violent world.
"Are you in pain, Hollie?" Ambrose asked, his cold, perceptive eyes scanning her delicate features.
"No, Mr. Calder," Hollie answered softly, her elegant posture unwavering even as she knelt on the floor. "I am perfectly fine."
"Will you take Maisie up to the nursery and stay with her until I come for her?" Ambrose asked, holding her gaze with an intensity that sent a sudden, warm flutter through Hollie’s chest.
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"Yes, Mr. Calder," Hollie replied, her rosy cheeks flushing slightly under his intense focus.
Ambrose stood up, watching as the beautiful housemaid took his daughter's hand and led her out of the luminous dining room. The impending war with the Sloan syndicate loomed over him, but for the first time in a year, his house finally felt like a home again.
