Chapter 13
The cleanup of the estate was a masterclass in silent, efficient logistics. By the time the sun began to rise over the city, the bodies were removed, the fires were extinguished, and the heavy iron gates were temporarily secured.
Cyrus walked back into the grand atrium. The bright, natural cinematic light poured through the skylights, illuminating the bullet-pocked ivory walls and shattered mirrors. The illusion of pristine perfection was broken, but the fortress had held.
He descended into the sub-basement, walking down the sterile, brightly lit corridor toward the panic suite. He pressed his thumb to the scanner, and the heavy steel door hissed open.
Della was sitting on the plush leather sofa, holding a sleeping Asa securely against her chest. She looked exhausted, her sophisticated black dress wrinkled and dusted with plaster, but she was entirely unharmed.
When she saw Cyrus standing in the doorway, the heavy burden of the night seemed to lift from her slender shoulders.
"Is it over?" Della asked, her voice a soft, tremulous whisper.
"The borders are secure," Cyrus stated, stepping into the room. He stripped off his tactical vest, tossing it onto a chair. He was wearing only his unbuttoned white shirt, his deep masculinity and absolute power filling the small space.
He walked over to the sofa, looking down at his son. "He slept through the end of it?"
"He fell asleep about an hour ago," Della replied gently, shifting slightly so Cyrus could sit beside them.
Cyrus sat down, the leather creaking softly under his weight. He looked at the beautiful housemaid, his cold, intimidating eyes softening completely.
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"You protected him, Della," Cyrus murmured, his deep voice carrying a profound, unshakeable gratitude. "You proved your loyalty when it mattered most."
"He is a sweet boy, Cyrus," Della said, looking down at Asa. "He deserves to be safe."
