Chapter 9
The sharp, medicinal smell of antiseptic faded as Dr. Evans packed his black bag and quietly exited the study, leaving Benedict, Vera, and the sleeping Nolan alone in the warm, golden light.
Vera looked down at her right hand, now securely encased in a rigid, black medical splint that immobilized her wrist and fingers. The intense, throbbing pain had dulled to a heavy ache, aided by the medication the doctor had administered. She slowly released her grip on Benedict’s hand, her fair skin flushing slightly at the realization of how tightly she had been holding onto the mafia boss.
"Thank you, Mr. Hale," Vera said softly, her expressive brows drawing together in gratitude. "For the doctor. And for... everything."
Benedict remained standing beside her chair. He slipped his hands into the pockets of his tailored trousers, his dark three-piece suit shifting effortlessly across his broad shoulders. He looked down at her, his perceptive eyes studying the beautiful, movie-star-like features of her face.
"Do you believe a 'thank you' is necessary for fixing what was broken in my house?" Benedict asked, his voice a low, mesmerizing rumble.
"I am just a maid, sir. I didn't expect you to clear the dining room for me," Vera admitted, her American accent barely a whisper in the quiet study.
"Are you just a maid, Vera?" Benedict asked, taking a slow step closer, closing the distance between them. "Or are you the woman who threw herself in front of a falling piano lid to save my son?"
Vera swallowed hard, her heart fluttering rapidly against her ribs. The sheer physical presence of the man was intoxicating. The scent of his expensive cologne mixed with the faint smell of cigar smoke and danger.
"He is a sweet boy," Vera deflected gently, looking over at Nolan sleeping peacefully on the leather sofa. "He talks about you constantly. He was so proud of that song. He practiced it every day while you were at the docks."
"Did he tell you his mother wrote it?" Benedict asked, his gaze softening imperceptibly as he looked at his son.
"Yes," Vera nodded. "He said she used to play it when it rained. He wanted to play it for you tonight because he thought it would make you happy to hear it again."
Benedict’s sharply defined jawline tightened. The loss of his first wife had been a brutal, bloody affair, a wound that had turned him into the cold, calculating king of the underworld. He had sought out Rosalind not for love, but for a strategic alliance that would bring stability to his empire. He had almost sacrificed his son's spirit on the altar of business.
"Do you think I deserve to hear it?" Benedict asked quietly, turning his eyes back to Vera.
"I think you deserve to remember the people who loved you," Vera answered bravely, holding his intense stare. "And I think Nolan deserves a father who listens."
Benedict stared at her. The housemaid in the sophisticated black dress possessed a profound, quiet wisdom that completely eclipsed the shallow, venomous nature of the woman he had almost married.
"Will you be able to perform your duties with that brace?" Benedict asked, abruptly shifting the subject, though his tone remained gentle.
"The doctor said I cannot do any heavy lifting or cleaning for six weeks, sir," Vera said, a sudden spike of panic hitting her. She needed this job to survive. "But I can still supervise, or help in the kitchens with my left hand—"
"Did I ask if you could clean my floors?" Benedict interrupted smoothly.
May you like
Vera blinked, confused. "No, sir."
"Will you accept a new position in this house?" Benedict asked, leaning slightly down toward her, his thick, wavy hair falling perfectly over his forehead. "Will you serve as Nolan’s personal governess, and answer only to me?"
