Chapter 7
The heavy doors clicked shut, plunging the vast, luminous ballroom into a profound, ringing silence. The cascading crystal chandeliers continued to cast their warm golden light over the abandoned gold-rimmed porcelain and half-empty crystal wine glasses. The opulent space, designed for celebration, now felt like a war room.
Warren stood silently for a moment, his broad shoulders rising and falling with a slow, controlled breath. The betrayal was absolute, the upcoming syndicate war with Simone’s father inevitable, but the immediate, toxic sickness within his inner circle 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 head table.
Della was kneeling on the floor, holding Henry tightly in her arms. The sophisticated black maid dress contrasted sharply with the boy’s dark waistcoat. Henry had buried his face in the crook of Della’s neck, his small body trembling from the shouting and the sudden violence of Simone’s removal. Della was gently stroking the child's hair, her softly heart-shaped face etched with deep, maternal relief.
Warren stopped beside them, his imposing, masculine frame casting a protective shadow over the housemaid and his son.
"Are you unharmed, Henry?" Warren asked, his deep voice softening significantly, losing its lethal, interrogative edge.
Henry turned his head, his fair, rosy cheeks stained with fresh tears. He looked at the towering mafia boss, his eyes searching for reassurance. "I'm okay, Dad. Is she coming back?"
"Would I ever allow someone who threatens our family to return to this house?" Warren asked, reaching out to gently cup the boy’s cheek.
Henry sniffled, leaning into his father's large, tattooed hand. "No."
"Are you a brave boy?" Warren asked, his thumb brushing away a tear.
"Yes," Henry nodded, his small chin trembling.
Warren shifted his gaze to Della. The beautiful housemaid was watching him, her expressive brows drawn together in quiet empathy. She had risked her job, her physical safety, and her life by intending to consume potentially poisoned food to protect a mafia boss. The fierce loyalty she had displayed was a rare, precious commodity in Warren's dark, violent world.
"Are you injured, Della?" Warren asked, his cold, perceptive eyes scanning her delicate features.
"No, Mr. Blackthorne," Della answered softly, her elegant posture unwavering even as she knelt on the floor. "I am perfectly fine."
"Will you take Henry up to the secure wing and stay with him until I come for him?" Warren asked, holding her gaze with an intensity that sent a sudden, warm flutter through Della’s chest.
"Yes, Mr. Blackthorne," Della replied, her rosy cheeks flushing slightly under his intense focus.
Warren stood up, watching as the beautiful housemaid took his son's hand and led him out of the luminous ballroom through a discrete service door. The impending war with the Vale syndicate loomed over him, but for the first time in a year, his house finally felt like a home again.
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He looked down at the untouched plate of food resting on the table. The threat of poison was still real.
"Shall we prepare for what comes next?" Warren asked the empty room, turning to begin his preparations for absolute war.
