Chapter 6
Diana swallowed hard, her heart pounding a frantic rhythm against her ribs. The sheer, overwhelming presence of the mafia boss standing before her, holding his resurrected wife, shattered every preconceived notion she had of him. He wasn't just a ruthless killer; he was a fiercely devoted husband whose grief had been weaponized against him.
"I didn't know what to expect, Mr. Crowne," Diana whispered, her expressive brows drawing together. "I just heard the knocks. I saw the candle go out. I couldn't just walk away and pretend I didn't see the latch."
"Did you think a monster would punish the only person with the courage to bring my wife back from the dead?" Vincent asked gently.
He didn't walk away. He stood there, his towering masculine frame casting a long shadow in the golden light. The rigid boundaries of class, wealth, and danger had been completely obliterated in the span of a single evening.
"Will you accompany us upstairs, Diana?" Vincent asked, his gaze lingering on her beautiful face. "Do you think I trust anyone else in this house to tend to her tonight?"
"I will come," Diana said softly, the reality of her new position settling heavily upon her. She was no longer just a maid; she was the keeper of the family's survival.
"Are you prepared for the war that begins tomorrow?" Vincent asked, turning his broad shoulders toward the heavy mahogany doors.
The private west wing of the mansion was a stark contrast to the opulent, echoing dining hall. The corridors here were lined with plush carpets and warm, muted lighting, designed specifically to be a sanctuary. Vincent walked silently down the hall, supporting Natalie’s frail weight effortlessly. Diana walked a half-step behind them, her black maid dress swishing softly. Heavy, armed guards nodded respectfully as they passed, their eyes widening in absolute shock as they registered the boss's dead wife walking the halls.
They reached the heavy oak double doors of the master suite. Vincent pushed them open, stepping into the massive room bathed in the soft glow of bedside lamps. He gently lowered Natalie onto the edge of the large, silk-draped bed.
"Will you draw a warm bath for her, Diana?" Vincent asked softly, looking over his shoulder.
"Right away, sir," Diana said, moving quickly toward the adjoining, luxurious marble bathroom.
While Diana prepared the water and gathered fresh, soft garments, Vincent remained by the bed. He removed his tailored suit jacket, draping it over a chair, then unbuttoned his crisp white shirt at the collar, revealing the artistic neck tattoo. He knelt beside the bed, holding Natalie’s cold, trembling hands between his own heavily tattooed ones, generating friction and warmth for the woman who had spent a year in freezing terror.
An hour later, Natalie was scrubbed clean, her hair washed and brushed, dressed in a thick, luxurious cashmere robe. She was tucked securely beneath heavy down comforters. The exhaustion of her imprisonment finally overtook her adrenaline, and she fell into a deep, profound sleep.
Diana stood near the door, her hands folded neatly over her white apron. She had discarded the damp towels and wiped a smudge of soot from her own cheek. She watched the mafia boss gently stroke his wife’s hair with a tenderness that defied his ruthless reputation.
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Vincent stood up slowly, the tension returning to his broad shoulders. He turned and walked over to Diana, stopping just a few feet away. His cold, perceptive eyes searched her softly oval face.
"Did you notice anything unusual about Elara's behavior before tonight, Diana?" Vincent asked, his deep voice a low rumble in the quiet bedroom.
