Chapter 10
Della accepted the crystal glass, her fingers briefly brushing against the refined artistic tattoos on his hand. "Thank you, sir."
Ronan poured a glass for himself and leaned against the edge of his massive desk, crossing his long legs at the ankles. He took a slow sip, his cold, perceptive eyes never leaving her beautifully oval face. The soft, elegant warmth of the desk lamp illuminated the powerful breadth of his shoulders.
"Are you aware of the retaliation that will follow Beatrice's imprisonment?" Ronan asked, his tone shifting back to the calculating, serious cadence of a man preparing for absolute war.
"I know her father is a very powerful man," Della admitted, taking a small sip of the liquor to soothe her dry throat. "He won't accept a broken engagement, let alone her being held captive."
"Do you believe I fear the wrath of a man who raised a murderer?" Ronan asked, his eyes darkening with lethal intent.
"No, sir," Della replied softly. "I think you are going to destroy him."
Ronan set his glass down on the desk. He stood to his full height, his powerful, masculine frame casting a long shadow across the room. The war with the Sloan syndicate was no longer a possibility; it was an absolute certainty. The streets would run red before the weekend was over.
"Will you accept a change in your employment, Della?" Ronan asked suddenly, shifting the topic with whiplash speed.
Della blinked, her expressive brows furrowing in confusion. "A change, sir?"
"Do you believe your talents are best utilized dusting mirrors and serving dinner?" Ronan asked, taking a slow step toward her.
Della’s breath hitched in her throat. The imposing, movie-star handsome face of the mafia boss filled her vision as he stepped closer.
"What kind of change, Mr. Ellsworth?" Della asked, her heart hammering against her ribs.
"Would you prefer to assume the role of Micah’s personal governess, answering to no one in this house but me?" Ronan asked.
Della stared at him, overwhelmed by the sheer magnitude of the offer. A governess was a position of high respect and immense trust, offering security that far exceeded her role as a housemaid. It meant she would no longer be invisible; she would be a central figure in the life of the mafia boss's only son.
"Are you serious, sir?" Della asked, a radiant, beautiful smile breaking across her fair, rosy face.
"Have I ever joked about the welfare of my child?" Ronan asked, stopping just inches from her.
"I would be honored," Della whispered.
"Will you trust me to keep you both safe when the war begins tomorrow?" Ronan asked, his voice a low, gravelly promise.
"Always," Della replied without hesitation.
Ronan raised his tattooed hand, his knuckles gently brushing against the soft curve of her jawline. It was a fleeting, electric touch that promised a future far more complicated than employer and employee.
Before either could speak again, the heavy oak doors of the study burst open. A bloodied security operative stumbled into the room, gasping for breath.
"Is the perimeter breached?" Ronan asked, spinning around, his hand already reaching for the concealed weapon beneath his jacket.
"Yes, Boss!" the operative choked out. "The Sloan syndicate didn't wait! They are at the gates right now!"
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Ronan looked back at Della, his eyes burning with an unyielding, protective fire.
"Shall we show them exactly what it costs to threaten my family?" Ronan asked the quiet room, racking the slide of his handgun as the sirens began to wail.
