Chapter 8
Within ninety seconds, the massive, opulent room was entirely empty of guests. The bright, airy lighting continued to cast a gentle golden warmth across the deserted white damask tables, the tall ivory candles flickering silently in their crystal hurricane holders. The only people remaining in the dining hall were Malcolm, Evelyn, Wren, Lucinda, and a dozen heavily armed, white American security guards standing quietly in the shadows near the marble columns.
Lucinda was trembling violently, her fair, rosy skin completely drained of blood. She looked at the armed guards, realizing that she was completely trapped.
"Malcolm, you cannot do this," Lucinda whispered, genuine fear finally bleeding into her eyes, replacing the arrogant entitlement. "My family brings the eastern ports to our alliance. If you touch me, my father will declare war. He will shut down your supply lines."
"Will he?" Malcolm asked, tilting his head with dangerous curiosity. The extremely short stubble on his jawline caught the golden light. "Or will he thank me for returning his defective, murderous daughter before she caused a war he could not possibly win?"
He looked toward the main doors of the dining hall.
"Will someone escort Miss Hale to my private study?" Malcolm asked the shadows.
Two massive men in tailored dark suits stepped forward instantly. They didn't offer their arms; they simply stood flanking Lucinda, their expressions grim and unyielding.
"Get your hands off me!" Lucinda shrieked, though the guards hadn't even touched her yet. She looked back at Malcolm, her face twisted with absolute, venomous hatred. "You are choosing a crazy old woman and a servant over a queen! You are a fool, Malcolm!"
"Are empires built by men who allow their parents to be murdered in their own beds?" Malcolm inquired, entirely unaffected by her venom.
Realizing she had no power left, and terrified of what the guards might do if she resisted, Lucinda turned and stormed toward the doors, the two guards following closely behind. Her furious footsteps echoed through the bright, airy room until the heavy doors slammed shut, plunging the dining hall back into a profound, ringing silence.
Malcolm turned his attention back to his mother. The cold, terrifying edge of the Mafia boss softened considerably as he looked down at the frail seventy-two-year-old woman.
"Are you injured anywhere else, Mother?" Malcolm asked gently, his deep voice returning to a warm, comforting rumble.
"No, Malcolm," Evelyn whispered, reaching out to squeeze his strong hand. "I am just so very tired."
"Will you allow me to have the estate physician examine you immediately?" Malcolm inquired, offering a reassuring smile.
"Yes, please," Evelyn nodded, looking incredibly relieved.
Malcolm turned his perceptive gaze toward the beautiful housemaid who had risked everything to protect his family. Wren stood quietly in her sophisticated black dress, her hands neatly folded over her white apron, her expressive brows relaxed. She had just survived a confrontation that should have cost her her life.
"Will you assist my mother to her suite, Wren?" Malcolm asked softly.
"Of course, Mr. Whitford. I will stay with her until the doctor arrives," Wren replied, her American accent steady and respectful.
"Do you understand the magnitude of the debt I owe you tonight?" Malcolm asked, looking deeply into her expressive eyes.
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Wren’s fair, rosy cheeks flushed slightly under his intense gaze. "I only did what was right, sir."
"Is bravery not the rarest commodity in our world?" Malcolm questioned, bowing his head slightly in a profound gesture of respect. He watched as the beautiful maid gently helped his mother out of her chair and guided her toward the residential wing, knowing that the dynamic of his household had just been permanently altered.
