Chapter 8
The subterranean vault beneath the Whitlock estate was a stark, brutal contrast to the opulent mansion above. Cold steel walls replaced ivory panels, and the harsh glare of emergency fluorescent lighting washed away the warm gold of the chandeliers. Esme sat on a heavy military cot, her hands still trembling violently as she held Caleb closely against her side. The six-year-old was incredibly brave, sitting quietly in his formal dinner jacket, but his small fingers gripped the fabric of Esme's apron with white-knuckled desperation.
Marcus stood by the massive, vault-style door, his submachine gun resting across his chest. The silence in the underground bunker was deafening, leaving Esme’s imagination to run wild with the horrors unfolding in the house above.
"I should have left," Esme whispered to herself, staring at her polished black shoes. "If I had just resigned yesterday, none of this would be happening."
Marcus glanced over at her, his scarred face softening just a fraction. "You really think the boss would have let you walk out the door, knowing what you knew?"
Before Esme could respond, a heavy, mechanical clanking echoed through the small space. The massive steel bolts of the vault door began to retract. Marcus immediately raised his weapon, stepping back and taking a defensive stance.
The heavy door swung open, and Dorian stepped inside.
He was breathing heavily, his white dress shirt unbuttoned at the collar, revealing more of the artistic tattoo on his neck. His tailored vest was dusted with plaster, and a faint smear of blood marred his knuckles, stark against the refined tattoos on his hands. He looked like a god of war returning from the front lines.
"Dad!" Caleb cried out, scrambling off the cot and running toward his father.
Dorian dropped to one knee, catching the boy in his powerful arms. He buried his face in Caleb’s shoulder, a long, ragged exhale escaping his lips.
"Are you hurt?" Esme asked, standing up quickly, her expressive brows knitting together in deep concern as she closed the distance between them.
Dorian stood up, lifting Caleb onto his hip once again. He looked down at Esme, his cold, observant eyes scanning her softly heart-shaped face.
"Do I look like a man who was bested?" Dorian asked, though the adrenaline of the fight still hummed audibly in his deep voice.
"You're bleeding," Esme noted softly, gesturing to his knuckles.
"Is a little blood not the cost of doing business?" Dorian inquired, his gaze burning intensely into hers.
Esme swallowed hard, taking a slight step backward. The sheer, masculine power radiating from him was intoxicating and terrifying in equal measure. "Mr. Whitlock... I should pack my things. Once the fighting stops, I need to leave the estate. This war is my fault. If Lucinda’s family knows I exposed her, they will hunt me."
Dorian stepped closer, completely erasing the distance she had just created. He looked down at her, his jaw set in a sharply defined line of absolute authority.
"Where exactly do you intend to go?" Dorian asked.
"Anywhere safe," Esme whispered, looking up into his eyes. "I can disappear."
"Do you believe there is anywhere on this earth safer than by my side?" Dorian asked.
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"I am just a maid," Esme pleaded, her voice shaking with emotion. "I don't belong in a mafia war!"
"Did you act like a maid when you shielded my son from a monster?" Dorian asked, raising his tattooed hand. He gently traced the line of her delicate cheekbone with his knuckle. "Would I let the only woman who protected my blood walk into the crossfire alone?"
