Chapter 7
Within ninety seconds, the heavy walnut doors swung open, and four of Ronan's heavily armed security operatives entered the bright, luminous dining room. They wore dark suits and grim expressions, moving with ruthless, silent efficiency. They hauled Beatrice to her feet, ignoring her hysterical screams and desperate pleas for mercy. They dragged her out of the room, her sculpted satin gown tearing as she fought uselessly against their iron grip.
The doors closed, sealing the room once more. The chaotic noise of her eviction faded down the marble corridors, leaving the grand hall steeped in a profound, ringing quiet. The tall candles flickered inside their crystal hurricane holders, casting warm, golden light over the untouched, extravagant banquet.
Ronan stood silently for a moment, his broad shoulders rising and falling with a slow, controlled breath. The betrayal was absolute, the upcoming syndicate war with Beatrice's father inevitable, but the immediate, rotting sickness within his home had been surgically removed.
He turned his attention away from the doors and looked back at the two people who mattered most.
Della was kneeling on the thick patterned rug, holding Micah tightly in her arms. The sophisticated black maid dress contrasted sharply with the boy’s formal dinner jacket. Micah had buried his face in the crook of Della’s neck, his small body trembling from the shouting and the sudden violence of Beatrice’s removal. Della was gently stroking his hair, her softly oval face etched with deep, maternal concern.
Ronan walked toward them, the heavy tread of his polished leather shoes muffled by the luxurious rug. He stopped beside them, dropping smoothly to one knee. His imposing, masculine frame cast a protective shadow over the housemaid and his son.
"Are you unharmed, Micah?" Ronan asked, his deep voice softening significantly, losing its lethal, interrogative edge.
Micah turned his head, his fair, rosy cheeks stained with fresh tears. He looked at his father, his eyes searching for reassurance. "I'm okay, Daddy. Did I do a bad thing telling you?"
"Would telling the truth to protect your family ever be considered a bad thing?" Ronan asked, reaching out to gently cup his son’s cheek.
Micah sniffled, a small, fragile smile finally breaking through his distress. "No."
"Are you a brave boy?" Ronan asked, his thumb brushing away a tear.
"Yes, Daddy," Micah nodded, leaning his small head against his father's large, tattooed hand.
Ronan shifted his gaze to Della. The beautiful housemaid was watching him, her expressive brows drawn together in quiet empathy. She had risked her job, her safety, and her life by standing with Micah against the fiancée of a mafia boss. The loyalty she had displayed was a rare, precious commodity in Ronan's dark, violent world.
"Are you injured, Della?" Ronan asked, his cold, perceptive eyes scanning her delicate features before dropping to her wrist.
"No, Mr. Ellsworth," Della answered softly, her elegant posture unwavering even as she knelt on the floor. "I am perfectly fine."
"Will you take Micah up to the nursery and stay with him until he falls asleep?" Ronan asked, his tone conveying a deep, unspoken gratitude.
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"Of course, sir," Della nodded, gently helping the boy to his feet.
"Will you come to my study once he is settled?" Ronan asked, holding her gaze with an intensity that sent a sudden, warm flutter through Della’s chest.
