Chapter 8
The two bodyguards didn't hesitate. The threat in Lysander's voice was absolute. They raised their hands, signaling their complete surrender, and backed quickly through the service entrance, disappearing into the corridors of the estate. They were leaving Nerissa entirely alone to face the wrath of the man she had betrayed.
Lysander turned his attention back to Isolde. The beautiful housemaid was standing exactly where he had left her, her hands clasped tightly over her white apron. Her expressive eyes were wide with terror, but she did not flinch or look away as the mafia boss approached her again.
He stopped in front of her, the massive disparity in their power and status vanishing in the wake of the truth she had just delivered. He reached out with his uninjured hand, gently cupping her delicate, fair face. His thumb brushed lightly over her cheekbone, the refined tattoos on his knuckles stark against her rosy skin.
"How long have you known, Isolde?" Lysander asked, his deep voice thick with a sudden, overwhelming grief that he carefully shielded from the rest of the room.
Isolde leaned into his warm palm, her breath hitching as tears finally spilled over her lashes. "Since the beginning, sir. I was assigned to clean her quarters during the final weeks. I saw what they were bringing her. It wasn't medicine. It was just water. Sometimes not even that. They locked the doors when you were away on business."
Lysander closed his eyes for a fraction of a second, the image of his wife suffering alone in the dark burning into his mind. "Why did you not come to me sooner?" he asked, though there was no anger in his tone, only a desperate need to understand.
"I tried," Isolde whispered, her voice cracking. "I tried to slip a note under your door, but her men intercepted it. Nerissa threatened my family. She said if I spoke a word, my little sister would disappear. I was so scared, Lysander. I’m so sorry."
The sound of his first name on her lips, spoken with such raw, unprotected emotion, struck him harder than any physical blow. She had carried this horrific secret, living in terror under the same roof as a murderer, all to protect her family. And yet, tonight, she had risked everything to protect him.
"You have nothing to apologize for," Lysander said softly, his dark eyes opening to look fiercely into hers. "You are the bravest person in this room."
He slowly lowered his hand, turning his broad shoulders back to face the room. The fifty guests were still paralyzed, watching the intimate, heartbreaking exchange between the boss and the maid.
Lysander looked at Nerissa, who was now weeping hysterically in the upholstered chair, clutching the property-transfer papers as if they could shield her from his vengeance.
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"Did you truly believe your threats could keep the truth buried forever, Nerissa?" Lysander asked, his voice returning to its cold, measured cadence, echoing with the finality of a judge passing sentence.
He didn't yell for his enforcers. He didn't need to. He simply raised his right hand, the hand she had injured, and snapped his fingers once. The sound cracked like a whip in the silent ballroom.
