Chapter 3
The immediate aftermath of Dante’s declaration was absolute chaos, but it was a quiet, restrained sort of violence. The Whitmore soldiers seamlessly moved into the salon, politely but firmly escorting the outraged Rowe family and their loyalists out into the freezing winter night. Dante did not stay to watch them leave. He scooped Felix into his arms, placed a gentle hand on Megan’s back, and guided them out of the music salon, away from the staring eyes of the remaining underworld elite.
They walked in silence through the sprawling corridors of the mansion until they reached Dante’s private study. The heavy oak doors clicked shut, plunging them into a sanctuary of dark leather, burning firewood, and the scent of expensive bourbon.
Dante set Felix down on a plush Persian rug near the fireplace. The toddler immediately pulled a wooden train from his pocket and began playing, blissfully unaware of the tectonic plates shifting in the mafia world because of his words.
Dante turned to Megan. She was standing awkwardly near the door, her disheveled hair falling into her eyes, her bandaged hands held protectively against her stomach.
"Come here, Megan," Dante said softly, pulling a leather chair closer to the fire.
"Mr. Whitmore, I am so sorry," Megan rushed out, her voice cracking as she took a hesitant step forward. "I didn't mean to cause a scene. I should have just played the piano. The Rowe family is too powerful, you shouldn't have insulted her for me."
"Sit down," Dante instructed gently, ignoring her apologies.
Megan sank into the leather chair. Dante knelt on the floor in front of her, his tailored trousers pressing into the rug. The artistic tattoos on his hands flexed as he carefully took her wrists. His touch was incredibly light, a stark contrast to his intimidating presence.
"Did the estate doctor wrap these?" Dante asked, examining the clean, lightweight bandages.
"Yes, sir. He said nothing is broken, but the bruising is severe. It will take a few weeks to heal," Megan explained, her cheeks flushing a deep rosy pink under his intense scrutiny.
"Tell me exactly what happened," Dante demanded, his eyes locking onto hers.
"Felix was crying this afternoon," Megan whispered, looking down at the little boy playing by the fire. "He missed his mother. I was dusting the music salon, and I remembered the lullaby she used to play for him. I sat him on the bench and played the melody. He was finally smiling."
Dante’s jaw tightened. "And Sabrina?"
"She walked in. She was furious that he called me Mommy," Megan continued, a tear slipping free. "She said a maid had no right to sing a dead woman's song. I went to stand up, but she grabbed the heavy lid and slammed it down over my fingers. She told me if I ever told you, she would hurt Felix next."
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A dark, murderous shadow passed over Dante’s face. He gently released her wrists and stood up, running a hand through his swept-back hair.
"Sabrina Rowe will never step foot in this house again," Dante swore, his voice a low, lethal rumble. "You are not just a maid anymore, Megan. You protected my son. From this moment on, you are under my personal protection. And the Rowes will pay in blood for what they did to you."
