Chapter 9
"Is the rival syndicate dismantled?" Malcolm asked Marcus, who had just entered through the ruined front doors, his suit dusted with white plaster.
"Yes, Boss," the operative reported grimly. "Hester's loyalists in the city tried to stage a secondary coup while the house was under attack. We crushed them. The territory is entirely yours."
"And Hester?" Malcolm asked, his voice a low, vibrating rumble.
"She was arrested attempting to flee the state," Marcus replied, a cruel smile touching his face. "We anonymously tipped off the feds about her offshore accounts. She won't see the outside of a cell for decades."
"Will you ensure our legal team provides the prosecutors with every piece of evidence we possess?" Malcolm asked.
"Consider it done, Mr. Greythorne."
Marcus exited, leaving Malcolm alone with Freya in the bright, golden morning light. The war had been swift, devastating, and absolute. The syndicate was purged of its poison.
"Are you ready to see what the future holds for us, Freya?" Malcolm asked, offering his heavily tattooed hand to her.
"I am ready," Freya smiled, placing her hand firmly in his.
"Will you accept a change in your employment?" Malcolm asked suddenly, shifting the topic with whiplash speed.
Freya blinked, her expressive brows furrowing in confusion. "A change, sir?"
"Do you believe your talents are best utilized dusting mirrors and serving dinner?" Malcolm asked, taking a slow step toward her.
Freya’s breath hitched in her throat. The imposing frame of the mafia boss filled her vision.
"What kind of change, Malcolm?" Freya asked, her heart racing against her ribs.
"Would you prefer to assume the role of my equal, answering to no one in this house but me?" Malcolm asked.
Freya stared at him, overwhelmed by the sheer magnitude of the offer. It was a position of high respect and immense trust, offering a life and security that far exceeded her role as a housemaid. It meant she would no longer be invisible; she would be a central figure in the life of the mafia boss's family.
"Are you serious?" Freya asked, a radiant, beautiful smile breaking across her fair, rosy face.
"Have I ever joked about the people under my protection?" Malcolm asked, stopping just inches from her.
"I would be honored," Freya whispered.
"Will you trust me to keep you safe?" Malcolm asked, his voice a low, gravelly promise.
"Always," Freya replied without hesitation.
Malcolm raised his tattooed hand, his knuckles gently brushing against the soft curve of her jawline. It was a fleeting, electric touch that promised a future far more complicated than employer and employee.
"Shall we go check on the garden?" Malcolm asked softly, offering her his arm.
May you like
Freya smiled, wrapping her arm securely through his. "Lead the way."
They walked out of the mansion and onto the terrace. The air was cool and crisp, the morning sun casting long, beautiful shadows across the manicured lawns. The damage from the attack was mostly confined to the front gates; the rear gardens remained pristine and untouched by the violence of the night before.
