Chapter 6
Dinner that evening was a surreal, suffocating experience for Emma. The formal dining room, usually reserved for syndicate sit-downs and silent, brooding meals, was now occupied by an incredibly tense mafia boss and a remarkably cheerful three-year-old.
Emma sat rigid in her chair. She had changed out of her maid uniform into a simple, elegant navy dress provided by the estate’s personal shopper, who had arrived with terrifying speed earlier that afternoon. Her blonde-brown hair was still pinned up, but loose strands framed her anxious, beautiful face.
At the head of the long mahogany table sat Adrian. He had removed his suit jacket, his open-collar black shirt exposing the dark ink crawling up his collarbone. He ate in silence, his intense gaze frequently shifting to the little girl sitting on his right.
Nora, utterly unbothered by the heavy atmosphere, was busy dissecting her roasted chicken.
"Mr. Adrian," Nora piped up, swinging her white-socked legs beneath the chair.
Adrian paused, resting his fork on the fine china. "Yes, Nora?"
"Why do you have pictures on your arms?" she asked, pointing a small, buttery finger at his tattooed forearms.
Emma choked on her water. "Nora, it's not polite to point."
Adrian held up a hand, silencing Emma. He rolled his sleeves up a fraction higher, revealing a beautifully detailed compass surrounded by shadows.
"They aren't just pictures, little one," Adrian said smoothly. "They are stories. Reminders of where I've been, and the things I need to protect."
Nora leaned over, her curly blonde hair spilling over her shoulders. She examined the compass with wide, observant eyes. "My Daddy had a picture on his arm, too. Mommy said it was a bird."
Adrian’s jaw tightened. He looked across the table at Emma. "A sparrow. On his left wrist."
Emma nodded slowly, her heart aching. "Yes. He got it when he was eighteen."
"I was there," Adrian murmured, a rare vulnerability flashing in his dark eyes. "I paid for it."
Nora smiled brightly. "I want a bird picture!"
"Absolutely not," Emma said quickly, her voice sharp.
Adrian let out a low chuckle, picking up his wine glass. "We’ll wait until you're a bit older, Nora. For now, you stick to washing off the chocolate."
For a fleeting second, looking at Adrian smiling at her daughter, Emma saw the ghost of James. The same ruggedly handsome bone structure, the same warmth that Adrian kept buried beneath layers of blood and violence. It terrified her how easily Nora was slipping past the mafia boss’s armor.
Later that night, after Nora had fallen asleep in a massive, plush bed in the opulent East Wing, Emma walked out onto the adjoining balcony. The night air was cool, the sprawling grounds of the estate illuminated by security floodlights.
She heard the heavy tread of polished leather shoes behind her. Adrian stepped out onto the balcony, holding two glasses of bourbon. He handed one to her.
"I don't drink," Emma said softly, though she took the glass.
"Tonight, you might want to," Adrian replied, leaning his muscular forearms against the stone balustrade, staring out into the darkness. "Silas has been looking into the timeline you gave me."
Emma gripped the crystal glass tightly. "What timeline?"
"The night James died," Adrian said, his voice turning cold, the warmth of the dining room entirely evaporated. "You said he gave you the lighter the night before he was killed. That he told you he was leaving the life."
"He did," Emma insisted. "He promised me."
Adrian turned his head, his dark eyes boring into hers. "James didn't die in a random hit, Emma. The warehouse where we found him belonged to the Rossi family, but it was empty. It was an ambush. Someone knew he was going to be there. Someone he trusted."
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Emma felt a chill race down her spine. "What are you saying?"
"I'm saying," Adrian breathed, his commanding presence heavy in the night air, "that if James was planning to leave the family for you, he had to have told someone. And whoever he told, put a bullet in his back."
