Chapter 7
The glass doors slid shut behind Raffaele, cutting off the hysterical, fading screams of his former fiancée. The interior of the estate was a stark contrast to the bright, sunlit garden. The hallways were cool, quiet, and lined with dark mahogany and classic Italian art. The cinematic lighting filtered through the skylights, casting dramatic, crisp shadows across the floor.
Raffaele walked with measured, unhurried steps toward his private study at the end of the east wing. As he approached the heavy oak doors, he found two of his most trusted personal guards stationed outside. They nodded respectfully, opening the doors for their boss.
Inside the study, the heavy velvet curtains were drawn back, allowing the bright natural light to spill over the massive leather sofas and the antique globe in the corner.
Noah was sitting on the center of the largest sofa, still sniffing quietly. He had kicked off his polished dress shoes, and his small legs dangled over the edge of the leather cushions. Margaret sat beside him, gently wiping his face with a warm, damp cloth.
When the heavy doors clicked shut, Noah looked up. His bright blue eyes, still red-rimmed from crying, widened.
"Daddy," Noah whispered, his tiny voice echoing in the large room.
The cold, ruthless Mafia boss who had just dismantled a woman's life in front of a hundred people vanished entirely. Raffaele’s face softened, the harsh lines of his jaw relaxing. He crossed the room in three long strides, dropping to his knees on the Persian rug right in front of his son.
"I am here, Noah," Raffaele murmured, his voice rich and incredibly tender. He reached out with his heavily tattooed hands, gently cupping the little boy’s rosy cheeks. "Did she hurt you? Tell me the truth."
"No," Noah sniffled, leaning his face into his father's large, warm palm. "She just pushed me. She said I had to go to the kitchen."
"You never go to the kitchen unless you want to, understand?" Raffaele said, his dark eyes locking onto his son's. "This is your house. You are a Marconi. You sit wherever you please. No one will ever tell you otherwise again."
"Where is Victoria?" Noah asked, looking toward the door nervously. "Is she going to be mad?"
"Victoria is gone," Raffaele stated, pressing a kiss to his son's forehead. "She is never coming back."
Margaret let out a long, shuddering sigh of relief, lowering the damp cloth. "Thank God, Mr. Marconi. I didn't want to overstep my bounds, but that woman... she has been awful to him when you aren't in the room. I was going to tell you tonight."
Raffaele slowly stood up, turning his gaze toward the longtime housekeeper. The terrifying, cold aura seeped back into his posture.
"You should have told me the very first time she raised her voice," Raffaele said, the measured, dangerous pauses returning to his speech. "Do not ever withhold information regarding my son again, Margaret."
May you like
"I am so sorry, sir. I won't," Margaret replied quickly, her fair skin paling slightly under his intense stare.
"Take him up to his playroom," Raffaele instructed, softening his tone slightly. "Order him whatever he wants for dinner. I have business to attend to."
