Chapter 8
The luxurious interior of the mansion was buzzing with a quiet, lethal efficiency. By the time Rowan returned to his private study on the main floor, the estate had been completely locked down. Heavily armed security operatives in dark suits patrolled the ivory-paneled corridors, their weapons concealed but readily accessible. The bright, luminous colors of the house felt suddenly stark against the dark reality of an impending syndicate war.
Rowan stood behind his massive carved walnut desk, pouring two fingers of amber whiskey into a crystal glass. He did not drink it. He stared at the golden liquid, his mind moving ten steps ahead of his enemies.
The heavy oak doors of the study swung open.
Silas, Rowan’s fiercely loyal underboss, stepped into the room. Silas was a broad-shouldered man with a jagged scar across his chin, his demeanor entirely professional and ruthlessly efficient.
"Are the perimeter guards in place, Silas?" Rowan asked, picking up the crystal glass and taking a slow sip.
"Yes, Boss. We have men stationed at all access points. The gates are reinforced, and the snipers are on the roof," Silas reported, his American accent crisp. "Georgina’s father, Marcus Sloane, is already mobilizing. Our sources say he’s calling in his hitters from the neighboring state. He considers the broken engagement an act of war."
"Do they truly believe they can threaten what is mine and live to tell the tale?" Rowan asked, his deep voice vibrating with absolute, lethal confidence.
"They think you’ve gone soft, Rowan," Silas said bluntly. "They think you threw away a strategic alliance over a maid. They don't know who she really is."
"Will they not learn the truth when we leave Marcus Sloane’s lieutenants bleeding in the streets tomorrow?" Rowan asked, setting his glass down with a sharp clack.
"What are your orders, Boss?" Silas asked, his eyes gleaming with anticipation.
"Will you dispatch three tactical teams to the Sloane syndicate's primary shipping warehouses on the docks?" Rowan asked, his cold, perceptive eyes narrowing into dangerous slits. "Will you ensure those warehouses burn to the ground before sunrise?"
"Consider it done," Silas nodded. "And Marcus Sloane?"
"Is a snake dangerous without its head?" Rowan asked quietly. "Will you find exactly where he is sleeping tonight?"
Silas smiled grimly. "I will have his location within the hour."
As Silas turned to leave, the study doors opened again. Mila stepped tentatively into the room. She had changed out of her maid's uniform and was wearing a simple, elegant dark blue dress that she had packed in her small suitcase. Her hair fell in soft, loose waves around her shoulders. She looked breathtakingly beautiful, her fair, rosy skin glowing in the warm light of the desk lamp.
Silas stopped, looking at the young woman with a newfound, profound respect. He bowed his head slightly to her before exiting the room and closing the heavy doors behind him.
"Are you comfortable in your new suite, Mila?" Rowan asked, his tone softening instantly as he looked at his daughter.
"It's beautiful. Thank you," Mila said, walking slowly into the grand study. She looked at the towering bookshelves and the massive desk, feeling entirely out of place, yet undeniably drawn to the powerful man who commanded it all.
"Why are you awake?" Rowan asked, walking around the desk to meet her in the center of the room.
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"I couldn't sleep," Mila admitted, her expressive brows drawing together in worry. "I heard the men outside. I know Georgina's family is coming for you. Because of me."
"Do you believe any force on this earth could harm you while I draw breath?" Rowan asked, stopping just inches from her, his towering, masculine frame casting a protective shadow over her slender figure.
