Chapter 8
The wealthy elites, the unassociated capos, and the house guests didn't need to be told twice. A mass, hurried exodus began. The rustle of expensive fabrics and the rapid clicking of shoes filled the room as the party fled the impending slaughterhouse. No one looked back at the kitchen. No one asked questions. Within five minutes, the vast dining hall was completely empty, save for Alex and his most loyal bodyguards.
"Clean this up," Alex commanded quietly to the guards. "Remove the body. Sanitize the kitchen. Lock down the estate perimeter. If anyone asks, Grant left for an extended trip to Europe, and Evelyn has retired due to failing health."
"Yes, Boss," the lead bodyguard replied, gesturing for the men to begin the grim work of erasing the violence.
Alex turned and walked out of the dining room. He navigated the long, brightly lit marble corridors of the estate, his mind shifting rapidly from the cold executioner back to the desperate father. The cinematic sunlight casting long shadows across the floor seemed to reflect the heavy burden of power he carried.
He took the private elevator down to the secure medical wing located in the lower levels of the mansion.
The heavy steel doors slid open. The pristine, white medical facility was a hive of quiet, urgent activity. Vincent, his second-in-command, was standing near the entrance, speaking in hushed tones to a man in a white lab coat.
"Vincent," Alex said, his deep voice slicing through the quiet chatter.
"Boss," Vincent nodded respectfully, stepping aside. "The specialist is here. He’s with them now."
Alex walked past them without a word, pushing open the door to the primary trauma room.
The room was bathed in stark, clinical light. Maya was sitting on the edge of the examination table, her beautiful, fair face pale and exhausted. The thick bandages on her hands had been carefully removed, revealing the angry, blistered skin beneath. She was wincing as the doctor gently applied a soothing, specialized burn cream to the wounds.
Sitting safely in Maya’s lap, curled tightly against her chest, was Rosie. The three-year-old’s small hands had already been treated and wrapped in soft, clean gauze. She was resting her head against her mother, her breathing slow and even, the tears finally dried on her rosy cheeks.
When the door clicked, Maya looked up. Her blue eyes, filled with an overwhelming mixture of pain and relief, locked onto her husband.
"Alex," Maya whispered, her voice trembling slightly.
The terrifying, deeply masculine Mafia boss melted away entirely. Alex crossed the room in three long strides, ignoring the doctor completely. He dropped to his knees beside the examination table, bringing himself to eye-level with his wife and daughter.
"Are you alright?" Alex asked, his raspy voice cracking with an uncharacteristic, profound emotion. He reached out with his large, tattooed hands, hovering carefully over Maya’s arms, terrified of causing her any more pain.
"We are okay," Maya murmured, leaning forward to rest her forehead gently against his. "The doctor said they are second-degree burns. They will heal, Alex. We are going to be okay."
"Daddy?" Rosie mumbled sleepily, opening her eyes.
"I am right here, little bird," Alex whispered, pressing a soft kiss to her forehead. "I am right here."
"Did Grandma go away?" the three-year-old asked innocently.
May you like
Alex’s sharply defined jawline tightened, the memory of his mother’s cruelty flashing through his mind. But he kept his face incredibly gentle for his daughter.
"Yes, sweetheart," Alex promised softly. "Grandma went very far away. And she will never, ever come back."
