Chapter 6
The warmth of the cascading chandeliers felt entirely disconnected from the cold reality settling over the dining room. Dorian slowly lowered Caleb to the floor. The six-year-old stood in his formal dinner jacket, looking small and fragile against the backdrop of the massive, opulent room. Caleb sniffled, wiping his nose with the back of his sleeve, still clutching the three coins.
Esme could not contain her maternal instinct any longer. Breaking protocol, she stepped forward, her black maid dress swishing softly, and dropped to her knees in front of the boy.
"Oh, Caleb," Esme whispered, her heart-shaped face filled with profound sorrow. She wrapped her slender arms around him, pulling him into a fierce, protective embrace. "I'm so sorry, sweetheart. I'm so sorry I didn't say anything sooner."
Caleb buried his face in her crisp white collar, his small shoulders shaking as he finally allowed himself to cry. "She said Dad was too busy making money to hug me for free," Caleb sobbed into Esme's shoulder.
Esme closed her eyes, fighting back her own tears. She held the boy tightly, gently stroking his back. She could feel Dorian’s towering, masculine presence standing right above them. The weight of his cold, observant eyes was a physical pressure pressing down on her spine.
"How long has this been happening, Esme?" Dorian asked, his deep, quiet voice cutting through the sounds of the child's weeping.
Esme slowly pulled back from Caleb, keeping her hands gently resting on his shoulders. She looked up at the mafia boss. Standing from this angle, Dorian looked like a dark god carved from marble—imposing, terrifying, and utterly unreadable.
"About a month, sir," Esme answered, her voice trembling. "Ever since she moved into the east wing. She would catch him in the hallways when you were in your study."
"Did you believe I was complicit in this cruelty?" Dorian inquired, his dark eyes narrowing slightly.
"No!" Esme said quickly, her expressive brows drawing together in distress. "No, Mr. Whitlock. I knew you loved him. I just... I was afraid."
"Were you afraid of her, or were you afraid of me?" Dorian asked.
The question hung in the air. Esme swallowed hard, looking at the refined tattoos on his hands. "Both, sir. She threatened to have me fired if I spoke to you. She said you would always believe your fiancée over a housemaid. I couldn't risk leaving Caleb completely alone with her. If I stayed quiet, I could at least try to run interference."
Dorian stared down at the beautiful woman kneeling on his floor, protecting his son. The loose strands of hair on his forehead cast shadows over his eyes, making it impossible for Esme to read his thoughts.
"Do you think I would dismiss the only person in this house who possessed the courage to protect my blood?" Dorian asked, his voice dropping to a low, gravelly whisper that sent a sudden, unexpected shiver down Esme’s spine.
Before Esme could find the breath to respond, the heavy mahogany doors at the far end of the hall burst open. A man in a dark trench coat rushed in, out of breath, carrying a suppressed submachine gun. It was Marcus, Dorian’s heavily scarred underboss.
"Boss," Marcus panted, his eyes darting to Esme and the boy before landing on Dorian. "We have a massive problem."
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"Has Vale already mobilized his men, Marcus?" Dorian asked, completely unfazed by the sudden intrusion.
"Yes, sir," Marcus grimaced. "Lucinda made a phone call from the driveway. Vale's convoys are currently blockading the eastern bridge. They are moving on our territory tonight."
