Chapter 4
Vera sat on the edge of Jude’s oversized bed, her hands resting in her lap as the boy played happily with a wooden train set on the thick wool rug. The door to the bedroom was locked, though it offered little comfort against the heavy, muffled shouts echoing from the first floor. Callan’s voice was a low, terrifying rumble, while Simone’s shrill accusations pierced the thick floorboards.
"Does it still hurt, Mommy?" Jude asked, looking up from his toys. His bright eyes were filled with innocent concern.
Vera forced a gentle smile, though her hands were still shaking. "I'm alright, sweetie. It doesn't hurt much."
It was a lie. The skin on the back of her left hand was an angry, blistered red from the boiling water Simone had poured on her the day before. The bandages had been hastily removed before the party because Simone didn't want the guests to see "unsightly medical tape" serving their champagne.
Suddenly, heavy, purposeful footsteps echoed down the hallway. Vera shot up from the bed, her heart in her throat. The doorknob turned, and when it found resistance, a quiet knock followed.
"Vera. Open the door." Callan’s voice was calm, but threaded with an exhaustion she rarely heard.
She hurried to unlock it, stepping back quickly as Callan entered. The formidable mafia boss had discarded his suit jacket and unbuttoned his vest. His tie hung loosely around his neck, revealing the negative space tattoos trailing down to his collarbone. He carried a small white first-aid kit in one hand.
"Papa!" Jude cheered, abandoning his trains and running to Callan's leg.
Callan smiled, a rare, genuine expression that softened his hard features. He ruffled Jude’s hair. "Hey, buddy. Why don't you play with your trains for a few more minutes? I need to talk to Vera."
Callan guided Vera toward a velvet armchair in the corner of the room. He pulled up a small stool and sat directly in front of her, his knees nearly brushing against her rumpled black maid dress. He placed the kit on the floor and gently took her left hand.
Vera hissed in pain as his fingers brushed the burned skin.
"Jesus Christ," Callan swore under his breath, his jaw clenching so hard the muscles ticked. His dark eyes flicked up to hers, burning with a furious intensity. "How long has she been doing this to you?"
"It's just the one time, Mr. Ashford. And tonight—"
"Do not lie to me, Vera," he said, his tone commanding but oddly gentle. He opened the kit and pulled out a tube of burn ointment. "Jude asked if he should get bandages 'again.' He said 'again.' Tell me the truth."
Tears welled in Vera’s eyes, her resolve breaking under his intense, protective gaze. "Three months. Whenever I was too slow, or if Jude spent too much time with me instead of her. She said I was trying to steal her place. She said pain was the only way girls like me learned."
Callan squeezed his eyes shut for a fraction of a second. When he opened them, the cold, calculating killer of the Ashford syndicate had returned. Carefully, he began applying the cooling ointment to her burns.
"Simone Drake is gone," Callan stated flatly, carefully wrapping a clean white gauze around her hand. "The engagement is broken."
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Vera gasped, her free hand flying to her mouth. "Mr. Ashford, you can't! Her father runs the port unions. The Drakes will wage war on your family if you insult them like this."
Callan tied off the bandage and looked deeply into her eyes. "Let them try."
