Daphne Hart placed the elegant dinner plate before Warren Blackthorne

The warm, muted light of the bedroom cast intimate shadows across the room. Della looked up into Warren’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 usually reserved for his most trusted lieutenants.

"I am just telling you what I see, sir," Della smiled back, her expressive brows lifting gently.

Warren stared at her, captivated by the movie-star beauty of her softly heart-shaped face and delicate cheekbones. The sophisticated black maid dress cinched at her waist highlighted the feminine perfection of her silhouette, but it was the quiet courage and unwavering loyalty in her eyes that truly drew him in.

"Shall we retire to my study?" Warren asked, gesturing toward the door. "Is there much we still need to discuss regarding the events of tonight?"

"Yes, Mr. Blackthorne," Della nodded, following him out of the room.

They walked in silence down the luminous, airy corridors of the penthouse. The warm golden light washed over the carved ivory-paneled walls and gilded mirrors. When they reached the heavy oak doors of his private study, Warren opened it and ushered her inside.

The study was a sanctuary of deep leather, rich mahogany, and walls lined with rare books. It felt isolated from the rest of the vast estate. Warren walked behind his massive carved walnut desk, pouring a small measure of amber liquid into a crystal glass. He offered it to Della.

"Would you care for a drink to calm your nerves before the real war begins?" Warren asked.

Della accepted the crystal glass, her fingers briefly brushing against the refined artistic tattoos on his hand. A jolt of electricity shot up her arm. "Thank you, sir."

Warren poured a glass for himself and leaned against the edge of his desk, crossing his long legs at the ankles. He took a slow sip, his cold, perceptive eyes never leaving her beautifully tapered face. The soft, elegant warmth of the desk lamp illuminated the powerful breadth of his shoulders in his tailored three-piece suit.

"Are you aware of the retaliation that will follow Simone's dismissal?" Warren asked, his tone shifting back to the calculating, serious cadence of a man preparing for absolute war.

"I know her father is a very powerful man," Della admitted, taking a small sip of the liquor to soothe her dry throat. "The Vale syndicate won't accept a broken engagement peacefully. They will want revenge."

"Do you believe I fear the wrath of a man who raised a coward?" Warren asked, his eyes darkening with lethal intent.

"No, sir," Della replied softly. "I think you are going to destroy him."

Warren set his own glass down on the desk. He stood to his full height, his powerful, masculine shoulders squared. The war with the Vale syndicate was no longer a possibility; it was an absolute certainty. The streets would run red before the weekend was over.

"Will you accept a change in your employment, Della?" Warren asked suddenly, shifting the topic with whiplash speed.