Chapter 8
Elodie reached out with small, trembling hands and took the stuffed rabbit. She hugged it tightly against her chest, her wide eyes searching her father's face. The rosy flush of fear on her fair skin was slowly fading, replaced by the profound relief of knowing she was safe.
"Daddy," she whispered, her American accent soft and hesitant. "Are Grandma and Uncle Rocco coming back?"
"No, little bird," Vittorio said, his deep voice wrapping around her like a heavy, protective blanket. "They are never coming back."
He reached out and gently brushed a stray lock of hair from her forehead. He noticed the faint red mark on her shoulder where Donatella had shoved her. A fresh surge of homicidal fury flared in his chest, but he forced it down, maintaining a calm, reassuring facade for his daughter.
"Did she hurt you anywhere else?" he asked quietly.
Elodie shook her head, burying her face into his thick neck as he scooped her up into his arms. She felt entirely weightless against his broad chest. He stood up, holding her securely, his immense masculine power acting as a fortress around her small, fragile frame.
Greta, the maid, stepped out from the master bedroom. She had successfully remade the bed with Elodie’s floral sheets, clearing away the last remnants of Rocco’s intrusion. She stood by the doorframe, her hands clasped nervously in front of her crisp white apron.
"The room is ready for her, Mr. Mancini," Greta said, her voice shaking slightly, intimidated by the violence she had just witnessed.
Vittorio looked at the young woman. He noted her pale, frightened face, but he also remembered that she was the only one who had tried to hold onto Elodie’s belongings when the matriarch attacked.
"Thank you, Greta," Vittorio said, his tone softening with genuine respect. "You did well today. Your salary is doubled, effective immediately. If anyone else in the staff ever speaks a harsh word to my daughter, you come directly to me."
Greta’s eyes widened in shock. A flush of color returned to her cheeks. "Yes, sir. Thank you, sir. I will."
Vittorio carried Elodie into the massive, sunlit bedroom. The walls were painted a soft, soothing cream, the large bay windows looking out over the sprawling, manicured grounds of the estate. He laid her gently on the plush mattress, tucking her favorite floral blanket around her shoulders.
"You rest now," Vittorio said, sitting on the edge of the bed. "I have some work to do downstairs. But I will leave the door open, and Marcus will be standing right outside in the hall. Nobody will bother you."
"Do you have to go away again?" Elodie asked, her small fingers clinging to his suit cuff.
"Not for a very long time," Vittorio promised, pressing a gentle kiss to her forehead. "This is your house, Elodie. Never let anyone tell you otherwise."
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He waited until her breathing slowed, watching as exhaustion finally overtook her small body. When her eyes fluttered shut and she drifted into a deep, peaceful sleep, Vittorio slowly stood up. He adjusted his jacket, his face hardening back into the cold, ruthless mask of a syndicate boss.
He walked out of the room, closing the door halfway. He had secured his daughter’s sanctuary, but he knew the cost of his actions. The house was quiet, but the streets outside were about to explode.
