Chapter 5
The interior of Duncan’s private study was a stark contrast to the bright, vivid colors of the pool terrace. The room was bathed in the warm, dim glow of a roaring fireplace and heavy brass desk lamps. The cinematic lighting caught the rich textures of the leather armchairs and the mahogany bookshelves lining the walls. It was a room built for power, intimidation, and secrecy.
Anwen stood in the center of the heavy Persian rug. Her hands were still tightly clasped in front of her crisp white apron, her knuckles white. The white lace headband felt heavy on her head. She had not dared to sit down. When the heavy double doors clicked open, she jumped, her beautiful face turning toward the entrance.
Duncan stepped into the study, closing the doors firmly behind him. The heavy click of the lock sealing them inside sounded like a judge's gavel.
He walked slowly around his massive desk, his tailored three-piece suit perfectly maintained. He did not sit. He leaned back against the edge of the polished mahogany, crossing his arms over his chest. The artistic tattoos on his hands and neck were stark and intimidating in the dim light.
"Sit down, Anwen," Duncan commanded softly.
"I prefer to stand, sir," Anwen replied, her American accent trembling despite her best efforts to maintain her composure.
"Sit," Duncan repeated. The pause between the words was absolute.
Anwen moved stiffly to the leather armchair opposite his desk and perched on the very edge of the cushion. Her breathing was shallow. She looked down at her lap, terrified to meet his cold, sharp eyes.
"Felice made a rather bold accusation on the terrace," Duncan began, his voice a low, rumbling vibration that filled the quiet room. "She claimed that you have been hiding something from me. Something significant."
Anwen swallowed hard. "Ms. Felice was angry, sir. She was just trying to cause trouble."
"Look at me."
Anwen slowly raised her head. The loose strands of wavy hair falling over his forehead gave him a deceptive softness, but his eyes were piercing, demanding the absolute truth.
"Is the boy mine?" Duncan asked. The sentence was measured, cold, and stripped of all emotion.
Anwen’s fair, rosy skin turned completely pale. She opened her mouth to deny it, to spin a lie that would protect her fragile, hidden life, but the sheer, overwhelming presence of the man in front of her crushed the falsehood in her throat. The memory of their single, passionate night together three years ago—a night where the terrifying Mafia boss had been surprisingly gentle and vulnerable—flashed in her mind.
"Yes," Anwen whispered, the word tearing out of her with a ragged sob. "Yes, he is yours."
Duncan closed his eyes for a fraction of a second. His sharply defined jawline tightened. The silence in the study grew incredibly heavy. When he opened his eyes again, the coldness had been replaced by a fierce, burning intensity.
"You hid my own flesh and blood from me for three years," Duncan stated. It wasn't a question; it was an accusation, delivered with a slow, controlled cadence.
"I was trying to protect him!" Anwen cried, leaning forward, her fear suddenly overshadowed by fierce maternal instinct. "You run a criminal empire, Duncan! You have enemies everywhere! If anyone knew he existed, he would be a target! Just look at what Felice did to him, and she was supposed to be your wife!"
"You think I cannot protect what belongs to me?" Duncan asked, his voice dropping into a dangerous, lethal whisper.
"I think a child doesn't belong in a war zone," Anwen fired back, tears streaming down her face. "I wanted him to have a normal life. I wanted him to be safe."
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Duncan pushed off the edge of the desk. He walked slowly toward her, his tall, masculine frame towering over the armchair. He reached out, his heavily tattooed hand gently wiping a tear from her rosy cheek.
"He will never be normal, Anwen," Duncan murmured softly. "He has my blood. But I swear to you, he will be safe. I want to see him. Tonight."
