Chapter 9
"Don't you dare look at him!" Anwen screamed, stepping sideways to completely block Felice’s line of sight to the bed where Leo slept. The maternal instinct overriding her terror transformed the gentle housemaid into a fierce, cornered animal. She gripped the heavy brass poker with both hands, ready to swing.
Felice smirked, her American accent dripping with condescension. "You think that piece of metal is going to stop a bullet, sweetie? You're out of your league. You always were."
"Shoot me, then," Anwen challenged, her fair skin flushed, her voice shaking but defiant. "But you'll have to kill me before you get anywhere near my son."
"Gladly," Felice spat, her finger tightening on the trigger.
Before Felice could pull the trigger, the large pane of reinforced glass that made up the master suite's balcony doors shattered inward with an explosive, deafening crash.
Bright shards of glass rained across the luxurious carpet. The heavy velvet curtains were ripped aside as a dark, massive figure swung through the broken window, propelled by a tactical repel line from the roof.
It was Duncan.
His face was cut by a flying shard of glass, a thin line of blood trailing down his sharply defined jawline, but his cold, intimidating eyes were locked entirely onto Felice with the intensity of a demon rising from hell. He had bypassed the front doors, knowing the fastest way into his own suite was from above.
Felice gasped, spinning around in pure shock, wildly swinging the suppressed pistol toward the balcony.
Duncan moved with terrifying, blinding speed. He didn't bother drawing his own weapon. He lunged forward, closing the distance before Felice could fully level the gun. His large, tattooed hand clamped down over the slide of her pistol, violently twisting the weapon upward and out of her grip. The gun fired harmlessly into the ceiling with a muffled thwip.
With his other hand, Duncan grabbed Felice by the throat.
The sheer, overwhelming masculine power of the Mafia boss lifted the thirty-four-year-old woman completely off her feet. He slammed her backward against the oak door, the impact rattling the hinges.
"Duncan!" Felice choked, her hands desperately clawing at his thick, tattooed fingers. Her rosy face turned a mottled purple as he cut off her air supply.
Duncan did not yell. He did not curse. He held her suspended against the wood, his face inches from hers. He spoke incredibly slowly, the measured pauses dripping with absolute, lethal intent.
"You. Touched. My family," Duncan whispered, his volume so low it was barely a breath, yet it resonated with an apocalyptic promise of violence.
"Please," Felice gasped, her eyes bulging with terror as she stared into the cold, dead eyes of the man she had tried to betray.
Anwen dropped the brass poker. It clattered loudly against the floor. She ran to the bed, shielding Leo, who had finally woken up and was crying softly at the sound of the shattered glass.
"Duncan," Anwen called out, her voice trembling. "Duncan, don't. Not in front of him."
Duncan’s eyes flicked toward Anwen and his crying son. The terrifying, murderous tension in his shoulders hesitated for a fraction of a second. The love he felt for his blood fought a violent battle against his ruthless nature.
With a disgusted sneer, Duncan released his grip.
Felice collapsed onto the floor, gasping hungrily for air, rubbing her bruised throat.
"Silas!" Duncan roared over his shoulder.
Heavy footsteps pounded up the stairs, and Silas burst into the room, his assault rifle raised. He took one look at the shattered window and the gasping woman on the floor.
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"Take her to the basement," Duncan ordered, turning his back on Felice to walk toward Anwen. "Lock her in the isolation cell. Let her rot in the dark."
Silas grabbed Felice by the hair, hauling her roughly to her feet and dragging her screaming and kicking out of the master suite.
