Chapter 6
The heavy mahogany double doors of the dining room swung open. Marcus, a towering man with a heavily scarred face and a dark trench coat, stepped into the room, flanked by two equally intimidating enforcers. They moved with absolute, silent precision, ignoring the lavish surroundings and focusing entirely on their boss.
“Will you escort my former fiancée to the holding cells in the cellar?” Wesley asked, not taking his eyes off the weeping woman on the floor.
“No! No, please!” Valerie shrieked, kicking and thrashing wildly as the two enforcers reached down and grabbed her by the arms. They hauled her to her feet with effortless strength, the delicate fabric of her champagne satin gown tearing at the seams. “My father will kill you, Wesley! He will slaughter your entire family for this!”
“Will you ensure she is gagged if she continues to scream, Marcus?” Wesley inquired, his voice completely devoid of emotion.
Marcus nodded grimly. “Yes, boss. Come on, let's go.”
The enforcers dragged Valerie backward toward the doors. Her diamond earrings swung violently, her manicured hands clawing uselessly at their iron grips. Her threats devolved into hysterical, panicked sobs that echoed down the grand hallway until the heavy doors clicked shut behind them, sealing the dining room in a profound, suffocating silence once more.
Wesley stood perfectly still for a long moment. The tension slowly bled out of his broad shoulders. He turned his head, his thick, slightly wavy hair catching the light of the crystal chandeliers, and looked across the room to where Gemma was still holding his son.
Gemma was shaking. Her sophisticated black maid dress felt incredibly thin in the aftermath of the violence. She had just witnessed the destruction of a massive mafia alliance, all because she had refused to stay silent. She looked at the mafia boss, terrified that his wrath would inevitably turn on her for knowing too much, or for allowing it to happen at all.
Wesley walked slowly back to the table. He did not sit. He stopped beside the velvet chair where Owen had been sitting, looking down at the small boy who was still hiding his face in Gemma’s apron.
“Is he harmed, Gemma?” Wesley asked, his deep voice softening just a fraction, losing the lethal edge it had carried moments before.
Gemma swallowed hard, forcing herself to meet his cold, observant eyes. “Not physically, sir. But he is terrified. He has been so tired for weeks, and I... I didn't know why. I thought it was just the stress of the late dinners.”
“How long has this been happening?” Wesley asked, gesturing vaguely to the glass of milk still sitting on the table.
“I only figured it out yesterday,” Gemma answered, tears finally spilling over her delicate cheekbones. “She wouldn't let anyone else prepare his evening milk. She said it was a bonding ritual. Yesterday, I saw her putting drops from a small vial into the glass in the kitchen. When I asked her about it, she told me she would have me fired and blacklisted if I spoke a word of it to you.”
“Did you believe I would dismiss you for protecting him?” Wesley asked, a flicker of something unreadable passing through his dark eyes.
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“I didn't know what to believe, Mr. Blackwood,” Gemma whispered, her voice cracking. “She was going to be your wife.”
Wesley looked at her, his jaw tightening as he processed the depth of the betrayal that had occurred under his own roof. “Do you think a ring excuses a monster, Gemma?”
