Chapter 8
"Is it over?" Hannah whispered against his chest, terrified of the answer.
"Do you believe the Voss family will ever pose a threat to us again?" Garrett inquired, stepping back slightly to look down into her face. "Victor is dead. His remaining men surrendered when they realized they were completely surrounded by my tactical teams."
Hannah swallowed hard, the brutal reality of the mafia world crashing over her like a tidal wave. She had exposed a lie, and Garrett had finished a war.
"And Sienna?" Hannah asked, her voice barely a breath.
"Will you accompany me to the cellar to conclude that piece of business tomorrow?" Garrett asked, a dark, unforgiving shadow crossing his sharp eyes.
He didn't wait for her to process the terrifying reality of his question. He looked past her to the bed, where Ben was sleeping peacefully.
"Is my son finally safe from the monsters?" Garrett asked, walking past Hannah to sit gently on the edge of the bed.
The morning sun cast a bright, cinematic light over the shattered glass and scarred marble of the Whitmore estate. The air still smelled faintly of cordite and smoke, a lingering ghost of the violence that had claimed the night. But inside the grand dining hall, where the chaos had first been ignited, a strange, profound peace had settled. The velvet chairs were righted, the debris swept away, and the fortress stood unbowed.
Garrett stood by the tall, repaired windows of his private study, gazing out over the sprawling, manicured grounds. He had changed into a fresh, immaculate dark three-piece suit, his powerful shoulders carrying the weight of his newly solidified empire. The neatly trimmed stubble on his jawline perfectly framed his cold, observant eyes as he listened to Marcus’s final casualty report.
"Are the remaining Voss territories completely under our control, Marcus?" Garrett asked, not turning away from the glass.
"Yes, Boss," Marcus grunted, shifting his weight. "The capos surrendered at dawn. The entire western seaboard is yours now. And Sienna... the commission took her. They want to make an example out of her for her father's unsanctioned attack."
"Do you believe they will show her any mercy after she targeted my blood?" Garrett inquired, his deep voice dropping to a terrifying, satisfied rumble.
"Not a chance in hell, sir," Marcus replied grimly.
As Marcus left, the heavy oak door of the study opened again. Hannah stepped inside, and Garrett’s breath hitched slightly in his chest. She was no longer wearing the fitted black maid dress with the white apron. Instead, she wore a beautifully tailored, emerald-green silk blouse and dark trousers, clothes Garrett had personally ordered for her before the sun rose. The stark white bandages were still on her fingers, a glaring reminder of the sacrifice she had made.
"Did you sleep at all, Hannah?" Garrett asked, closing the distance between them, his cold eyes warming instantly at the sight of her elegant transformation.
"A little," Hannah answered softly. "Ben is awake. He is asking for you."
"Do you believe the savior of the Whitmore family should ever wear a maid's uniform again?" Garrett asked, a faint, almost imperceptible smile touching his lips as he offered her his tattooed arm.
Hannah looked down at his offered arm, the artistic, refined tattoos on his hand stark against the crisp white cuff of his shirt. She had crossed a threshold last night, stepping out of the shadows and into the blinding light of the mafia king's inner circle. The transition was terrifying, yet looking into his movie-star handsome face, she felt a profound sense of rightness.
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"What happens now, Garrett?" Hannah asked softly, taking his hand, her bandaged fingers resting gently against his skin.
"Shall we go see my son, and then rebuild our family?" Garrett asked, leading her out of the study and into the bright, airy corridors of the estate.
