Chapter 10
The atmosphere on the third floor of the mansion was terrifyingly quiet. Maisie Rowan stood just inside the heavy oak doors of the secure wing, her back pressed against the wood, listening to the distant, muffled sounds of chaos echoing through the lower levels of the house. The heavy titanium deadbolts were thrown, securing the room like a fortress vault.
Eddie was asleep on the massive leather sofa in the center of the room, completely exhausted by the emotional trauma of the evening. The boy's breathing was deep and rhythmic, oblivious to the fact that his father was currently mobilizing a small army downstairs.
Maisie smoothed her pristine white apron, her softly oval face pale but resolute. She had stepped out of her role as a housemaid the moment she grabbed Eddie's hand in the dining hall. She was now a guardian, entirely complicit in the violent world of the Pierce syndicate.
A sharp, heavy knock echoed against the heavy oak doors.
Maisie flinched, her heart hammering against her ribs. She stepped closer to the wood, keeping her voice low. “Who is it?”
“Will you open the door for me, Maisie?” Donovan’s deep, quiet voice vibrated through the heavy wood.
Maisie immediately disengaged the deadbolts, pulling the door open just enough to let the mafia boss step inside. Donovan Pierce walked into the secure wing, his towering frame casting a massive shadow across the Persian rug. He had removed his tailored suit jacket, rolling up the sleeves of his crisp white shirt to reveal the extensive, intricate tattoos wrapping entirely around his powerful forearms. A heavy, suppressed pistol was holstered at his hip.
He walked over to the leather sofa, looking down at his sleeping son. The cold, observant eyes softened for a fraction of a second, a microscopic display of a father's profound relief. He reached out, gently brushing a stray lock of hair from Eddie’s forehead with his tattooed fingers.
He stood up, turning his attention back to the beautiful housemaid standing guard by the door.
“Did he ask any questions about what happened in the basement before he fell asleep?” Donovan asked softly.
“No, Mr. Pierce,” Maisie answered, her American accent steady. “He just wanted to know if you were going to fight the bad men. I told him you were going to protect the house.”
Donovan nodded slowly. He stepped away from the sofa, walking toward Maisie. The energy rolling off him was electric, terrifying, and entirely focused on the impending war. He stopped a few feet away from her, his high-bridged nose catching the dim light of the secure wing.
“Are you prepared for the blood that will spill across this city before dawn, Maisie?” Donovan asked, his voice a lethal hum. “Will you stand firm when Silas and his traitors come to burn this house to the ground?”
Maisie held his gaze, her expressive brows drawing together in fierce determination. She wasn't just a maid anymore. She had chosen her side.
“I will stand exactly where you need me to stand, Mr. Pierce,” Maisie replied.
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Donovan let out a very low, almost imperceptible breath that might have been a laugh in another life. He reached into his pocket, checking the time on a heavy gold pocket watch, before drawing his weapon with a sharp, metallic clack.
“Shall we see how deeply this treason runs in my empire?” Donovan asked, turning back toward the heavy oak doors as the distant sound of shattered glass echoed from the foyer below. The war had arrived.
