Chapter 5
The terrified guests remained frozen, offering no answers to the Mafia boss. Nobody moved to defend Gareth. Nobody spoke a word.
"Take him down to the cellar," Cormac commanded, his voice devoid of any emotion.
The two bodyguards hesitated for a fraction of a second. They were Gareth's men, paid by him, loyal to his ambition. But looking into the cold, sharp eyes of Cormac Briarwood, they understood that their paychecks meant nothing if they were dead.
The Black bodyguard moved first, stepping forward and gripping Gareth's arm tightly. The white bodyguard followed, securing Gareth's other side.
"What are you doing?" Gareth shouted, thrashing against their grip. "I pay you! I own you!"
"They belong to the survivor, Gareth," Cormac said quietly. "Did you forget the rules of the house you were trying to steal?"
The bodyguards hauled the older man away, ignoring his screams as they dragged him through the gallery doors and toward the dark belly of the estate.
Cormac stood in the center of the room, his broad shoulders squared. He looked out at the guests, his expression returning to the calm, controlled mask of the gracious host.
"I apologize for the interruption to the evening's recital," Cormac said, his voice a low, reassuring rumble. "The music will resume shortly. Please, enjoy the champagne."
It was a dismissal as much as an invitation. The guests, eager to distance themselves from the violence, immediately began to turn back to their tables, picking up fresh glasses and forcing polite, terrified conversation to resume. The string quartet, pale but professional, hurriedly began to play a soft, classical piece to fill the heavy air.
Cormac turned his back on the crowd and walked toward Iona.
She was still standing near the performance riser, her hands clasped tightly in front of her white apron. She had just punched a made man and witnessed a shooting in the span of three minutes. Her heart was hammering against her ribs, but as Cormac approached, the deep, protective warmth returned to his eyes, meant only for her.
"Are you unharmed, Iona?" Cormac asked softly, stopping inches away from her.
"I'm fine, sir," she breathed, looking up into his handsome face. "Are you?"
"I am entirely uninjured, thanks to you," Cormac replied, his tattooed fingers gently brushing against her arm. "But you cannot remain in this room. The adrenaline will wear off, and you will crash. Will you go to my private quarters and wait for me?"
Iona looked at him, recognizing the command hidden within the question. He needed her safe, away from the prying eyes of the syndicate members who had just realized exactly how much the boss cared for a housemaid.
May you like
"Yes, Mr. Briarwood," she nodded, her voice steady.
She turned and walked gracefully out of the gallery, her flat shoes making no sound. Cormac watched her go, a fierce, unspoken affection burning in his chest. The coup had been crushed, but as he looked around the bright, luminous room, he knew the war for his empire—and for the woman he loved—was only just beginning.
