Chapter 7
The sweeping marble staircase led Rowan and Mila away from the bright, airy grandeur of the main floor and down toward the more muted, utilitarian corridors of the staff wing. Even here, the mansion maintained an elegant warmth, though the crystal chandeliers were replaced by simple, polished brass sconces.
Mila led the mafia boss to a small, immaculate room at the end of the hall. She unlocked the door and stepped inside. It was sparsely decorated, holding only a single bed, a small dresser, and a uniform closet. It was no place for the daughter of a king.
Rowan stood in the doorway, his broad shoulders almost too wide for the frame. His cold, observant eyes took in the cramped space, his jawline tightening with renewed anger toward the woman he had just banished.
"Did she force you to sleep in this room while she paraded in diamonds upstairs?" Rowan asked, his deep voice vibrating with suppressed fury.
"It was a roof over my head," Mila answered softly, walking over to the small dresser. "I didn't mind the work. I just... I needed to know who you were."
She opened the top drawer and pulled out a small, worn wooden box. Her slender fingers unlatched it, revealing a faded envelope and a small stack of photographs. She turned and offered the envelope to Rowan.
Rowan stepped into the room, taking the letter with his tattooed hands. The handwriting on the envelope was instantly recognizable to him, even after twenty-six years. The elegant, sweeping script of Evelyn’s hand sent a sharp, agonizing ache through his chest.
He opened the letter and read it in silence. The room was perfectly still, save for the sound of his measured breathing. Mila watched his movie-star handsome face, searching for any sign of rejection. Instead, she saw the cold, perceptive eyes of the ruthless mafia boss soften with an overwhelming, profound sorrow.
When he finished, he carefully folded the letter and placed it inside the inner pocket of his tailored dark three-piece suit, resting it directly over his heart.
"Did she suffer at the end?" Rowan asked, looking up at Mila.
"No," Mila smiled sadly, her expressive brows drawing together. "She went to sleep and just didn't wake up. She was at peace."
"Do you know how much you look like her?" Rowan asked, his voice barely a whisper. "The shape of your face... your eyes. It is as if she is standing right in front of me."
"She told me I had your nose," Mila chuckled softly, a watery, emotional sound.
Rowan smiled—a rare, genuine expression that completely transformed his intimidating features into something breathtakingly warm. He looked down at her sophisticated black maid dress, the white apron, and the cuffs. The uniform was an insult to his bloodline.
"Will you pack your belongings, Mila?" Rowan asked, his tone shifting from mourning to absolute authority.
Mila blinked, her softly oval face registering confusion. "Pack? Are you sending me away?"
"Do you believe I would ever let you out of my sight again?" Rowan asked, stepping closer to her. "Will you allow my men to move your things to the master wing? To a suite fitting for my daughter?"
Mila’s breath caught in her throat. The acceptance was total and unequivocal. He wasn't hiding her; he was elevating her.
"Yes," Mila breathed, tears of sheer joy welling in her eyes. "Yes, I will."
"Will you wait here while I make the arrangements?" Rowan asked, placing a gentle hand on her shoulder. "Will you trust me to keep you safe when the war begins tomorrow?"
May you like
"I trust you," Mila said firmly.
Rowan nodded, his cold eyes burning with a fierce, protective fire. He turned and walked out of the small room, his mind already calculating the violent, bloody mathematics of the mafia war that would undoubtedly begin before the sun rose.
