Chapter 5
The walk from the grand drawing room to Beckett’s private study was agonizingly quiet. The heavy oak doors clicked shut behind him, sealing away the festive decorations and the lingering scent of betrayal. The study was a sanctuary of dark wood, leather, and quiet, ambient lighting, completely free of the oppressive Christmas cheer that had choked the rest of the mansion.
Beckett walked over to a heavy mahogany desk, leaning against the edge of it. He ran a tattooed hand through his swept-back hair, disturbing its flawless perfection. He needed to mobilize his network immediately. The wealthy family Clarissa mentioned could be anywhere on the coast, and with every passing hour, the trail would grow colder.
He picked up a secure landline, punching in a sequence of numbers with his thumb. The line rang twice before his lead enforcer, a scarred veteran named Vance, picked up.
"Boss, the perimeter is locked down. The guests have vacated the property," Vance reported instantly.
"Assemble the strike teams in the armory," Beckett ordered, his voice a low, vibrating hum of calculated violence. "And bring the estate doctor to the sub-basement. I want him to administer whatever chemical interrogatives are necessary to extract a name from Clarissa. I want answers before the hour is up."
"Understood, Boss. What about the Shaw syndicate?"
"Let them come," Beckett replied coldly. "If they approach the gates, consider it an act of war and respond with lethal force."
He slammed the phone down, the sharp crack echoing in the quiet room. He stood up, unbuttoning his suit jacket and rolling up his sleeves, revealing more intricate, artistic tattoos traveling up his muscular forearms. He was preparing for a bloodbath.
A soft, hesitant knock at the study door broke his violent train of thought.
"Enter," Beckett commanded, his sharp jawline setting into stone.
The door creaked open, and Ella stepped inside. She had removed her rumpled white apron, folding it neatly over her arm. Her black maid dress was still creased, but her delicate features radiated a fierce, protective warmth. She had settled Oliver into his bed and immediately sought out the man she had secretly loved for years.
"He is sleeping, sir," Ella whispered, closing the heavy door behind her. "The guards are stationed outside his room."
Beckett looked at her, the terrifying aura of the mafia boss vanishing entirely, replaced by the profound, unprotected vulnerability of a grieving father. He walked slowly toward her, his polished leather shoes making almost no sound on the thick Persian rug. He stopped just inches away, his towering, masculine presence completely enveloping her smaller frame.
"Are you unharmed, Ella?" Beckett asked, his deep voice softening into a register he reserved only for her.
"I am fine, Beckett," Ella replied softly, dropping his formal title in the heavy intimacy of the moment. "But the baby... she said she sold him to a richer family. What if they took him out of the country? What if we never find him?"
"Do you truly believe I would allow anyone on this earth to hide my blood from me?" Beckett asked, reaching out with his hands.
The artistic negative space tattoos stood out starkly against her fair, rosy skin as he gently cupped her face. His thumbs brushed lightly across her cheekbones, wiping away a fresh tear that had escaped her puffy eyes.
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"I thought he was dead," Ella sobbed, leaning into his warm palms. "I stood in that clinic and they told me he didn't take a single breath. I wanted to die with him."
"You endured that agony alone because of my blindness," Beckett said, his voice thick with guilt and suppressed rage. "I brought that monster into this house. I will never forgive myself for what she put you through."
