Chapter 8
The kiss broke, leaving Vera breathless, her heart hammering against her ribs for an entirely different reason than fear. Elias rested his forehead against hers, his breathing heavy, his hands gently framing her delicate face. The quiet intimacy of the moment was a fragile bubble, insulating them from the violent reality of the mafia world outside the study doors.
Before either of them could speak, the secure phone on Elias’s desk began to ring. The shrill, encrypted tone shattered the silence.
Elias sighed, a harsh, frustrated sound escaping his chest. He pulled away from Vera, the cold, calculating mask of the syndicate boss slipping back over his angular features instantly. He stood up, his tailored suit shifting smoothly over his masculine frame, and strode to the desk.
"Report," Elias commanded, picking up the receiver.
"Boss, it's Silas," the lieutenant's voice crackled through the speaker. "The Cross family has mobilized. Their scouts were just spotted probing the eastern perimeter. They know we have Delia."
"Did they attempt a breach?" Elias asked, his voice devoid of panic, asking the question with tactical precision.
"Not yet," Silas replied. "They are massing numbers. Old man Cross just sent an encrypted message. He demands his daughter back within the hour, or he will flatten the estate."
"Does an old man with a bruised ego truly believe he can issue ultimatums at my gates?" Elias asked, his jaw tightening. "Reinforce the eastern walls. Issue armor-piercing rounds to the snipers on the roof. If a single vehicle crosses the property line without my authorization, turn it to scrap metal."
"Understood, Boss. We are ready," Silas confirmed before the line went dead.
Elias set the phone down carefully. He didn't move for a moment, staring out the window into the dark, cold night. The Christmas Eve snow was beginning to fall, a peaceful, picturesque scene that starkly contrasted the impending bloodshed.
Vera watched him from the sofa. She felt the heavy, suffocating weight of the world he carried on his broad shoulders. She stood up, her black maid dress swishing softly, and walked over to him. She didn't hesitate this time; she wrapped her arms around his waist from behind, resting her cheek against his back.
Elias stiffened in surprise for a fraction of a second before relaxing into her touch. He covered her delicate hands with his large, tattooed ones.
"Are you afraid, Vera?" Elias asked quietly, looking at their reflection in the dark glass of the window.
"I am terrified," she admitted honestly. "But I am not afraid of you. I am afraid for you."
"Do you think I will let them breach these walls?" he asked, turning around within her arms so he could look down into her expressive eyes.
"I know you will fight them," she whispered, looking up at his handsome face. "But there are so many of them, Elias. Is she worth a war? Can you not just hand Delia back to them and negotiate a peace?"
"Can a king hand back a prisoner who attempted to murder his heir and still retain the respect of his men?" Elias countered gently, his hands resting on her waist. "If I give her back, I show weakness. I show the commission that my blood can be targeted without consequence. The war is unavoidable, Vera. The only question is how quickly we end it."
He stepped away from her, walking toward a large, ornate wooden cabinet in the corner of the study. He unlocked it with a key from his pocket, pulling the heavy doors open.
Inside was a personal armory. Sleek, matte-black rifles and suppressed pistols lined the racks, alongside tactical vests and spare magazines.
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Elias removed his tailored suit jacket, tossing it carelessly over a leather chair. He unholstered his everyday carry weapon, checked the magazine, and slid it back. He then retrieved a heavy, tactical vest, strapping it over his crisp white shirt and waistcoat. The artistic tattoo above his collar was stark against the dark Kevlar.
He was arming himself. The boss was going to the front lines.
