Chapter 7
The grand dining room, with its gold-rimmed porcelain and tall candles, felt entirely detached from the grim reality of the mafia world. Gemma gently stroked Owen’s hair, trying to soothe the trembling boy. She looked up at Wesley, mesmerized and terrified by the imposing figure he cut in his tailored three-piece suit.
“I didn't think it excused her, sir,” Gemma replied softly, her expressive brows drawing together. “That is why I tried to stop him from drinking it tonight. But I was afraid of what she might do to him if I wasn't here to watch over him.”
Wesley absorbed her words in silence. He reached out, his refined, tattooed hand moving with slow, deliberate gentleness. He knelt beside them, bringing his angular face down to Owen’s level.
“Are you ready to look at me, Owen?” Wesley asked quietly.
Owen hesitated, sniffing loudly, before slowly turning his head. His small face was streaked with tears, his navy dinner suit wrinkled from clutching Gemma. He looked at his father with wide, anxious eyes.
“Is she gone, Papa?” Owen whispered, his voice incredibly fragile.
“Will I ever let her near you again?” Wesley asked, reaching out to gently wipe a tear from the boy’s cheek with his thumb.
Owen shook his head, throwing his small arms around his father’s neck. Wesley caught him, pulling the boy tightly against his broad shoulders. He stood up effortlessly, carrying his son, holding him securely against the dark fabric of his suit. The sight of the ruthless mafia boss holding the small boy with such profound, protective care made Gemma’s breath catch in her throat.
“Are there any other vials in her quarters, Gemma?” Wesley asked, looking at the housemaid over Owen’s shoulder.
“I don't know, sir,” Gemma answered, wiping her own cheeks. “She keeps her dressing room locked. She never allowed the staff inside without her being present.”
“Will you accompany me to her rooms to search them?” Wesley asked.
“Right now?” Gemma asked, glancing nervously toward the heavy double doors. “But sir, her family... if they find out what you did, won't they send men? Isn't it dangerous for you to be walking around the estate?”
“Do you believe my own home is unsafe for me?” Wesley inquired, a dark, chilling confidence radiating from his cold eyes.
“I just worry about an ambush, sir,” Gemma admitted, her heart-shaped face pale.
“Are my men not the most lethal in the city?” Wesley asked, adjusting his grip on his son. He turned toward the doors. “Shall we go?”
Gemma nodded, smoothing down her white apron, and followed the towering mafia boss out of the dining room.
The corridors of the Blackwood mansion were eerily quiet. The usual bustle of the staff had vanished, replaced by the heavy, silent presence of heavily armed guards stationed at every intersection. They nodded respectfully as Wesley passed, their eyes sharp and vigilant.
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They reached the east wing, where Valerie’s luxurious suites were located. Wesley did not bother looking for a key. He raised his polished leather shoe and delivered a devastating, perfectly placed kick to the heavy oak door, shattering the locking mechanism instantly. The door flew open, crashing against the wall.
“Will you wait here with him for a moment?” Wesley asked Gemma, setting Owen down gently in the hallway and gesturing toward the shattered doorway.
