Chapter 7 - The Crown of Dark Silk
The drive back to the Moretti estate was silent, but it was not the suffocating silence of the dining room hours before.
It was the deep, electric stillness that follows a hurricane.
The sleet had stopped, leaving the streets of Chicago coated in a crystalline sheath of black ice that glittered beneath the amber streetlights. Inside the Maybach, the partition was raised, shutting out the driver and the city.
Elena sat in the leather seat, staring down at her bare hands.
Her fingers were slightly bruised, her knuckles raw from tension, but the trembling had stopped completely.
A warm hand slid over hers.
Damian’s fingers interlaced with hers, his thumb rubbing the sensitive skin between her thumb and forefinger.
"You were magnificent," he said quietly.
Elena didn't look up immediately. "I wanted to kill her, Damian. When I picked up those shears... for three seconds, I wanted to plunge them into her throat."
"Why didn't you?"
Elena turned her head, looking into his smoke-gray eyes. "Because my father spent twelve hours bleeding in an iron warehouse so I wouldn't have to become a monster."
Damian stared at her, his throat working as he swallowed down a wave of raw, unvarnished emotion.
"Your father was the bravest man I ever knew," Damian whispered, his hand tightening around hers. "Until tonight."
When the car pulled up the long, curving drive of the Lake Forest estate, the grounds were ablaze with light. Guards stood at attention along the stone balustrades, their heads bowed respectfully as the Maybach came to a halt beneath the portico.
Damian stepped out and held the door for her.
As Elena crossed the threshold into the grand foyer, she stopped.
The Carrara marble had been scrubbed clean. The broken crystal was gone. The red wine stain had been lifted from the stone, leaving not a trace of the violence that had taken place four hours earlier.
Marta stood at the base of the grand staircase, wearing her dark wool coat, her hands clasped in front of her. Beside her stood the entire household staff—twelve women and eight men who had shared bread with Elena in the kitchen basement for two years.
None of them looked at the floor.
As Elena walked in, Marta stepped forward, dropped into a deep, reverent curtsy, and lifted her chin with tears streaming down her wrinkled cheeks.
"Welcome home, Donna Elena," Marta whispered.
Behind her, the entire staff bowed.
Elena’s hand flew to her throat, her breath catching. She looked at Damian, her hazel eyes wide with sudden vulnerability.
May you like
"You don't sleep in the west wing tonight," Damian said gently, guiding her toward the grand staircase. "The master suite has been prepared for you. The entire estate is yours."
***
