Chapter 8 - The Truth
By 5:30 AM, I was back at the estate.
The house was dark and quiet. I showered in the master suite, changing into a clean wool sweater and trousers, washing away the cold scent of Markovic's club.
As I stepped out into the hallway, I saw a light flickering beneath the door of the library.
I walked over and pushed the door open softly.
Clara was sitting in a high-backed leather chair by the fireplace, wrapped in a cream cashmere cardigan, a cold cup of tea sitting on the side table beside her. She wasn't painting. She was waiting.
"You're home," she said quietly, turning her head to look at me.
"I had business to attend to," I said, stepping into the warm glow of the fire. "You shouldn't have stayed up, Clara."
She stood up, walking toward me with slow, deliberate steps until she was standing directly in front of me. She looked up into my face, her eyes searching the subtle exhaustion around my eyes.
"Markovic's men broke the windows at my gallery last night," she said flatly.
I didn't blink. "I know."
"My gallery manager called me at midnight," she continued, her voice trembling slightly, not with fear, but with an intense, overwhelming emotion. "She told me three men came by at 5:00 AM with a team of glaziers, replaced the windows with bulletproof glass, cleaned the floor, and left an envelope with a fifty thousand dollar check and a handwritten apology from Viktor Markovic."
I remained silent, holding her gaze.
"You went to see him, didn't you?" she whispered.
"I promised you that no evil would cross our threshold, Clara," I said softly. "I also promised that I would protect your family. Markovic crossed a line."
Clara looked at my hands—the hands that had built an empire, the hands that had smoothed her daughters' hair, the hands that had just crushed a rival boss hours earlier.
"Are you hurt?" she asked, her voice cracking.
The question stunned me. In twenty years, no one had ever asked me if I was hurt after a conflict. They asked if the territory was secure. They asked if the cops were paid off. They never asked about me.
"No," I replied softly. "I am fine."
Clara took a step closer, reaching out to place her hand gently against my cheek. Her skin was warm, soft, and smelled of rosewater.
"Alexander," she whispered, her thumb brushing over my jawline. "When I asked you to pretend to be their father that day in the café... I thought I was choosing the lesser of two evils. I thought I was using a dangerous man to scare away a small one."
"You were," I said.
"No," she insisted, tears brimming in her eyes as she looked up at me. "I was wrong. You are not a dangerous man to us. You are the safest place my daughters have ever known. You are the safest place I have ever known."
My chest tightened with a force that took my breath away. The calculating, invulnerable leader of Chicago's underworld vanished, leaving only a man who had fallen deeply, irrevocably in love with the woman standing before him.
I wrapped my arms around her waist, pulling her close against my chest, burying my face in the soft curve of her neck.
"Clara," I breathed, my voice thick with emotion.
May you like
She wrapped her arms around my neck, holding me with a fierce, desperate intensity. "Don't leave us, Alexander. Don't let this be just a one-year agreement."
"I am never leaving you," I swore against her skin, the promise absolute and unbreakable. "You and those four girls are my family. Forever."
