Chapter 7 - The Master Suite
The heavy mahogany doors of the second-floor master suite were locked from the inside with three solid brass deadbolts.
Inside, the suite was warm, lit only by the dim amber glow of a table lamp in the corner. The room smelled of cedar wood, expensive leather, and the soft scent of lavender soap.
Elena sat on the edge of the massive king-sized bed, holding Ivy tightly in her lap. Ivy had her small face buried in her mother’s shoulder, her arms wrapped around Elena’s neck, though she was surprisingly quiet, showing none of the hysterical fear that most children her age would exhibit during a lockdown.
Argo lay flat across the rug directly in front of the locked door, his chin resting on his paws, his ears twitching at every distant rumble of thunder outside.
Mario stood near the window, his gun drawn, keeping watch over the front driveway through a narrow split in the velvet curtains.
"They're leaving," Mario suddenly announced, his tension visibly melting away from his shoulders. "The sedans are turning around. Boss handled it."
Elena let out a shaky breath she felt like she had been holding for an hour. "He... he didn't give us up?"
Mario turned around, chuckling softly as he holstered his weapon. "Lady, you clearly don't know Dante Castellani. The man would start a war with the Vatican if someone broke a dinner plate in his house without asking. He’d never hand over a woman and a child to a scumbag like Mark Krol."
The heavy deadbolts on the suite door suddenly clicked open one by one.
The door swung open, and Dante stepped into the room. His wool coat was slightly damp from the rain, his dark hair catching the light of the lamp. He looked completely unbothered, as if he had just returned from a brief evening stroll around the gardens.
Argo immediately stood up, walking over to Dante and letting out a low, welcoming huff. Dante reached down, casually patting the mastiff’s broad head before fixing his eyes on Elena.
"They are gone," Dante reported smoothly.
Elena stood up slowly, setting Ivy down on the soft bed sheets. She walked across the room until she stood three feet away from the billionaire mob boss.
"Why did you do that?" she asked, her voice filled with genuine confusion and emotional exhaustion. "You could have ended this whole headache in five minutes. You could have handed me over, kept my daughter, or thrown us both out. Protecting us will cost you millions in security upgrades and risk your peace with Rhode Island."
Dante looked down at her pale face, his dark eyes softening just a fraction.
"My father built this estate forty years ago," Dante said softly, his voice echoing in the quiet bedroom. "He told me that a man’s strength is not measured by how many enemies he can kill in the street. It is measured by how safe the people inside his walls feel when the storm hits."
He looked past her, toward Ivy, who was watching him with big, curious dark eyes from the center of the plush bed.
"Your daughter sat in six inches of ice water today to comfort a broken animal," Dante added, his lips curving into a rare, genuine smile. "I think that makes her worth a war with Rhode Island."
Ivy suddenly sat up straight on the bed, pointing her little finger at Dante’s damp suit jacket.
"You are wet," Ivy declared seriously, frowning at him. "You need a towel. Like Argo."
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Dante stared at the little girl for a second, then let out a low, rich laugh that echoed warmly through the silent master suite—a sound that Mario hadn't heard from his boss in over five years.
"Yes, little one," Dante agreed, stepping into the room and closing the heavy door behind him. "I suppose I do."
