Nessa Clarke bent to retrieve the fallen napkin, freezing as Ellis shifted his foot and a short chain pulled taut between his ankle cuff and the heavy dining chair.

The interrogation room was a sterile, windowless box lined with soundproofing foam. A single metal table was bolted to the center of the floor. Rossi, one of Callum’s senior security guards, was handcuffed to the heavy chair, his face pale and sweating profusely. He knew exactly why he had been dragged down to the basement, and he knew the penalty for treason in the Whitestone family.

The heavy steel door opened, and Callum stepped inside. He had removed his vest, wearing only his crisp white shirt, the sleeves rolled up to reveal the refined tattoos wrapping around his muscular forearms. He carried a clean white towel in his hands.

“Boss, I swear, I didn't know what she was going to do!” Rossi panicked immediately, straining against the handcuffs. “She said it was just a prank! She said she wanted to teach the kid a lesson! I didn't know about the chain until it was too late!”

“Do you believe a man can claim ignorance while holding Ward money in his bank account?” Callum asked, dropping the white towel onto the metal table.

“It was just a bonus! She said it was a gift for the wedding!” Rossi begged, tears streaming down his face. “You know I’m loyal, Callum! I’ve bled for this family!”

“Did your loyalty vanish the moment you looked away from my son’s suffering?” Callum inquired, his deep voice eerily calm, the measured pauses striking like physical blows.

Callum did not yell. He did not ask another question. The execution of justice was swift, silent, and brutal, hidden behind the heavy steel doors of the soundproof room.

Ten minutes later, Callum walked out of the interrogation room. The white towel in his hand was no longer pristine; it was stained heavily with crimson. He wiped his bruised knuckles methodically, his cold, watchful eyes betraying absolutely no emotion as he handed the bloody towel to Marcus.

“Will you have the body disposed of before the siege begins?” Callum asked quietly.

“Consider it done, Boss,” Marcus nodded grimly, stepping into the room to clean up the mess.

Callum ascended the concrete stairs, leaving the subterranean darkness behind. He walked toward the kitchen to wash his hands, the adrenaline of the execution slowly bleeding from his system. As he turned the corner, he stopped.

Nessa was standing by the marble kitchen island, pouring a glass of warm milk. She looked up, her expressive brows drawing together in shock as she saw the blood on his hands and the dark, violent aura surrounding him. She was wearing her sophisticated black maid dress, looking incredibly pure and delicate amidst the violence of his world.

Callum stood perfectly still, fully expecting her to run from the monster he truly was.

“Does the blood frighten you, Nessa?” Callum asked, his voice low, almost vulnerable in its quiet intensity.

Nessa swallowed hard, looking at his scarred, tattooed knuckles, and then up into his cold, observant eyes. She saw the ruthless mafia boss, but she also saw the fiercely protective father who had dismantled an empire to save his son.

“No, sir,” Nessa answered softly.

She set the glass of milk down and picked up a clean, damp cloth from the counter. She walked slowly toward him, her slender proportions moving with breathtaking grace. She stopped right in front of him, reaching out with trembling hands to gently take his large, tattooed hands in hers. She began to carefully wipe the remaining blood from his skin.

“Are you certain you belong in a house filled with such violence?” Callum asked, his chest rising and falling heavily as he looked down at her beautiful, heart-shaped face.

“I belong where Ellis is safe,” Nessa whispered, her thumb gently tracing over the ink on his knuckles. “And he is safe with you.”