Chapter 7
The heavy walnut doors swung open, and four of Malcolm's heavily armed security operatives entered the bright, luminous dining room. They wore dark suits and grim expressions, their American accents entirely absent as they marched forward without a word. They grabbed Seraphina by the arms, hauling her roughly to her feet. She shrieked, thrashing wildly against their iron grip, but they were unyielding.
"Will you remove the ring, Seraphina, or must I have my men cut it from your hand?" Malcolm asked smoothly, his cold, perceptive eyes completely devoid of mercy.
Trembling violently, completely stripped of her power and her future, Seraphina ripped the heavy diamond engagement ring from her finger. She threw it fiercely onto the polished walnut table. It struck a crystal wine glass with a sharp crack, spinning out of control before coming to rest near a flickering tall candle.
"You will regret this, Malcolm!" she screamed as they dragged her backward toward the doors. "You will all burn for this!"
"Will you convey my deepest regards to your father when I send him the pieces of his syndicate?" Malcolm asked quietly.
He did not answer her further screams. He watched in silence as the heavy oak doors slammed shut behind her, severing the alliance and guaranteeing a bloody mafia war. The room was finally quiet again, the only sound the gentle crackle of the carved marble fireplace.
Malcolm stood alone near the head table for a long moment, his broad shoulders rising and falling with a slow, controlled breath. The betrayal was absolute, the upcoming syndicate war with Seraphina’s father inevitable, but the immediate, toxic sickness within his home had been surgically removed. Now, he had to secure his empire.
He turned his body, his polished leather shoes pivoting seamlessly on the thick rug, and walked out of the dining room through the same discrete service door Nell had used.
He navigated the ivory-paneled corridors of the mansion, bypassing the staff quarters entirely. Instead, Malcolm guided himself up the sweeping marble staircase toward the secure, heavily guarded family wing. The warm golden hues of the wall sconces illuminated his path, a stark contrast to the dark, violent reality of the impending mafia war.
He reached the doors to the massive, luxurious master suite. He knocked softly.
"Is it safe?" Nell's fragile voice called from inside.
"Would I be standing here if it wasn't?" Malcolm answered, his deep voice a low, reassuring rumble.
The heavy deadbolts clicked, and Nell opened the door. Her sophisticated black maid dress was pristine, her fair, softly oval face etched with deep, maternal relief.
"Is Lucas asleep?" Malcolm asked, stepping into the room.
"Yes, Mr. Vance," Nell nodded, gesturing toward the large plush bed where the seven-year-old was breathing heavily, clutching a different, softer toy in his sleep. "He crashed as soon as his head hit the pillow."
Malcolm walked over to the bed, looking down at his son with a profound, unspoken affection. He reached out, his beautifully tattooed fingers gently adjusting the blanket over the boy's shoulders.
"Do you know that you are the reason he feels safe enough to rest?" Malcolm asked, turning his head to look at the housemaid.
Nell’s breath caught in her throat. His physical proximity was overwhelming. The sheer, rugged beauty of his angular face and high-bridged nose was breathtaking up close.
"I just did what anyone would do," Nell deflected modestly, her rosy cheeks flushing under his intense gaze.
"Do you truly believe that anyone else in that dining room would have defied my fiancée to expose a kidnapping?" Malcolm asked softly.
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"They were afraid of her, Mr. Vance," Nell answered honestly.
"Are you aware of the danger you have just invited into your life, Nell?" Malcolm asked, his cold, perceptive eyes scanning her delicate features.
