Holly Mercer drew the linen napkin aside from seven-year-old Finn's lap

The private west wing of the mansion was a stark contrast to the opulent, echoing dining hall. The corridors here were lined with plush carpets and warm, muted lighting, designed specifically to be a sanctuary. Quentin walked silently down the hall, carrying Finn effortlessly in his powerful arms. Holly walked a half-step behind him, her black maid dress swishing softly. Heavy, armed guards nodded respectfully as they passed, their eyes widening slightly as they registered the housemaid walking so closely with the boss.

They reached the heavy oak door of Finn’s bedroom. Quentin pushed it open, stepping into the room bathed in the soft glow of a bedside lamp. He gently lowered Finn onto the large bed, careful not to jostle the exhausted boy.

"Will you help him change into his pajamas, Holly?" Quentin asked softly, looking over his shoulder.

"Yes, Mr. Vale," Holly said, moving quickly to assist the tired seven-year-old. She moved with practiced grace, helping Finn out of his stiff waistcoat and cream shirt, exchanging them for soft, warm cotton sleepwear.

While Holly worked, Quentin remained by the window, looking out over the dark grounds of his estate. He removed his tailored suit jacket, draping it over a chair, then unbuttoned his crisp white shirt at the collar, revealing the artistic neck tattoo. He watched Holly interact with his son in the reflection of the glass, observing the gentle, maternal care she offered the broken boy.

"Does it hurt very much?" Holly whispered to Finn, gently rubbing a soothing salve onto the angry red marks on his wrists.

"Not anymore," Finn murmured, his eyes heavy with exhaustion. The adrenaline of the evening had completely drained from his small frame.

Holly pulled the thick comforter up to his chin, smoothing his hair back. Within minutes, the boy was sound asleep, his breathing even and deep.

Holly stood up, turning to face Quentin. The mafia boss had turned away from the window and was now watching her with a terrifying, piercing intensity.

"Is he resting comfortably?" Quentin asked, his deep voice a low rumble in the quiet bedroom.

"He is fast asleep, sir," Holly answered, her voice barely a whisper. She kept her hands folded neatly over her white apron, acutely aware of the fact that she was entirely alone in a bedroom with the most dangerous man in the city.

Quentin closed the distance between them with slow, measured steps. He stopped just a few feet away, his towering masculine frame dominating her field of vision. The scent of his expensive cologne, mixed with a faint trace of scotch, enveloped her.

"Why did you risk your life tonight, Holly?" Quentin asked, his perceptive eyes searching her softly heart-shaped face.

"I couldn't just stand there and watch him suffer, sir," Holly replied, her expressive brows drawing together. "She had terrified him into silence. Someone had to speak."

"Did you consider the danger you were putting yourself in by crossing her in front of the entire commission?" Quentin asked, the extremely short stubble on his jaw catching the lamplight.

"I only considered that he was a child, and someone had to protect him," Holly said, holding his gaze with a fierce, unwavering bravery.

"Are you always this reckless?" Quentin inquired. He reached out, his refined, tattooed hand hovering for a fraction of a second before he gently tucked a loose strand of dark hair behind her ear.

The touch sent a jolt of electricity straight to her core. Holly swallowed hard, looking up at his angular face. The danger surrounding them was absolute, but the safety she felt in his presence was undeniable.

"Only when it matters, sir," Holly breathed, her heart fluttering wildly at his proximity.