Chapter 7
The heavy mahogany doors of Tristan’s private study closed with a solid, echoing thud. The room was a sanctuary of dark wood, wall-to-wall books, and the sharp scent of expensive scotch and old paper. The only illumination came from a heavy brass desk lamp, which cast long, dramatic shadows across the space.
Tristan stood by the massive window, looking out over the dark, sprawling grounds of his estate. He had discarded his suit jacket, wearing only his tailored charcoal vest and a crisp white shirt, the sleeves rolled up to reveal the intricate, refined tattoos wrapping around his muscular forearms.
The door clicked open softly, and Elsa stepped into the room. She had ensured Ruth was safely tucked into a luxurious guest bed, guarded by two heavily armed enforcers. She stood near the doorway, her hands folded neatly over her white apron, feeling incredibly out of place in the nerve center of the mafia empire.
"She is resting, sir," Elsa said quietly, breaking the heavy silence. "Marcus has secured the corridor."
"Do you believe she will be safe here?" Tristan asked, not turning away from the window.
"She is safer here than anywhere else in the city," Elsa answered, stepping slightly further into the room. "No one would dare breach this house tonight."
Tristan turned slowly, his broad shoulders casting a long shadow in the dim light. His cold, observant eyes locked onto her. The extremely short stubble on his jawline seemed darker, emphasizing the sharp, angular cut of his face. He walked over to a crystal decanter on a side table and poured two glasses of amber liquid.
"Will you join me, Elsa?" Tristan asked, holding one of the crystal glasses out toward her.
Elsa hesitated. A housemaid drinking scotch with the boss in his private study was a profound breach of protocol. But the events of the evening had obliterated all normal rules. She stepped forward, her slender figure moving with graceful elegance, and took the glass. Her fingers brushed against his, the brief contact sending a jolt of electricity straight to her core.
"Thank you, sir," she whispered.
"Did I ask for your formalities tonight?" Tristan inquired, his deep voice a low, intimate rumble. "Have you not earned the right to speak to me simply as a woman who saved my family?"
Elsa swallowed hard, looking down at the amber liquid, then up into his piercing eyes. "Tristan. I... I just did what I thought was right."
"Do you realize the magnitude of what you have done?" Tristan asked, taking a slow sip from his glass. "Did you know that by exposing Felicity, you have effectively dismantled a major alliance with the Crane syndicate?"
"I knew it would cause trouble," Elsa admitted, her expressive brows drawing together. "But I also knew that if you married her, she would eventually destroy you and your son. A woman who can steal a baby from a dying mother has no soul."
"Are you aware that she will use my daughter as a shield to secure her release?" Tristan asked, his jaw tightening as the anger flared beneath his calm exterior.
"I am aware," Elsa said softly. "But I also know that you are not a man who negotiates with terrorists."
Tristan stared at her, genuinely surprised by the fierce, unwavering certainty in her voice. He stepped closer, completely erasing the distance between them. His towering masculine frame dominated her field of vision.
"Do you think I am a monster, Elsa?" Tristan asked quietly.
"I think you are a father who was robbed of half his heart," Elsa answered, holding his gaze without flinching. "And I think you will tear this city apart brick by brick to get her back."
"Will you stand by my side while I burn it down?" Tristan asked, his voice dropping to a terrifying, deadly whisper that promised absolute ruin for his enemies.
"I will," Elsa promised, the vow sealing her fate to the mafia boss forever.
May you like
Before Tristan could speak again, the heavy oak doors burst open. Marcus stood in the doorway, his scarred face tight with grim urgency.
"Boss," Marcus growled. "She’s ready to talk."
