Chapter 6 - The Maid’s Terms
The heavy brass bolts of Damian’s ground-floor bedchamber clicked open.
Hannah stepped back from the doors as Damian walked into the room, followed by Carlo, who stayed outside to secure the hallway.
Damian closed the heavy doors behind him. He took off his shoulder holster, laying the silver Magnum flat on the mahogany desk, and unbuttoned his dark suit jacket, tossing it over the back of the leather wheelchair.
He looked at Hannah.
She was standing near the hearth, her grey apron slightly wrinkled, her hazel eyes searching his face with intense, silent inquiry.
“It’s over,” Damian said quietly.
Hannah let out a long, slow breath, her shoulders visible relaxing for the first time in three hours. “Vivien?”
“On her way to the airport,” Damian replied, stepping closer to her. “Moretti is in the cellar waiting for his ransom. Bruno is being removed by Carlo’s men.”
He stopped two feet away from her. The firelight played across his sharp, handsome features, casting long shadows against the wood-paneled walls.
“You held your ground up there,” Damian said, his voice carrying a warmth that was entirely new. “She hit you, and you didn't bow to her.”
Hannah touched her bruised cheek lightly with her fingers. “She was weak, Mr. Russo. She needed four men with guns to feel powerful. I’ve known women like her my whole life.”
Damian watched her face. He reached out, his long, warm fingers resting gently against her uninjured cheek, his thumb tracing the soft line of her jawline.
Hannah didn't pull back this time. She looked up into his dark, iron-hard eyes, feeling the heat of his skin, the immense, protective strength that emanated from him like a furnace.
“You fulfilled your part of our deal, Hannah,” Damian whispered, his low voice vibrating in her chest. “Now it’s time for me to fulfill mine.”
He walked over to the mahogany wall safe, opened it, and pulled out a heavy white leather envelope. He walked back and held it out to her.
Hannah looked down at the envelope. She didn't reach for it.
“What is that?” she asked warily.
“It’s a deed,” Damian said softly. “To a three-story stone house overlooking the bay in San Remo. It has a garden, a private dock, and an income trust that generates ten thousand euros a month for life. It’s registered in your name.”
Hannah stared at the white leather envelope. A strange, sharp ache touched her chest.
“I told you yesterday, Mr. Russo,” Hannah said, her voice dropping into a raspy whisper. “I don't want your money. I didn't help you so you could buy me a house.”
Damian took her small hand, placed the leather envelope into her palm, and folded her fingers over it.
“It’s not a payment, Hannah,” Damian said, his dark eyes locking onto hers with an intensity that made her breath catch. “It’s freedom. You said your terms were that when this was finished, I wouldn't get to decide what happens to your life. The house is yours. The money is yours. You can leave tonight, go to San Remo, and never look at a mafia boss or a grey maid’s apron again.”
Hannah looked down at her folded fingers resting over the heavy leather envelope.
She thought about the grey apron she had worn for six months. She thought about polishing silver for people who didn't know her name. She thought about the peaceful blue water of San Remo, the stone house, the garden, and a life where no one would ever grab her throat or slap her face again.
It was everything a poor girl from Turin could ever dream of.
Then she looked back up into Damian Russo’s eyes.
She saw the titan who had built an empire, the king who had pretended to be broken to catch his traitors, and the man who had stood over her with a silver gun because a spoiled woman had scratched her cheek.
“And what about you?” Hannah asked softly.
Damian smiled faintly, a dark, lonely expression. “I go back to being Don Russo. I rebuild the dock operations. I fight the remaining families in Milan. I live in a big house with eighty armed men and no one I can trust.”
Hannah stood quietly for five long seconds. The rain outside had stopped, leaving only the soft drip of water from the eaves.
Slowly, deliberately, Hannah opened her fingers.
She laid the white leather envelope flat on the mahogany table beside his silver gun.
Damian’s brow furrowed slightly. “Hannah?”
“I’m keeping my job,” Hannah said clearly.
Damian blinked, caught completely off guard for the second time since he had met her. “Your job? As a maid?”
“As the manager of this estate,” Hannah corrected him, a tiny, stubborn smile touching the corners of her lips. “Someone has to make sure Mrs. Gable doesn't bleach the lace sheets to death. And someone has to make sure you don't forget to eat your dinner while you’re planning your wars.”
Damian stared at her, his broad chest rising and falling slowly as the full weight of her decision washed over him.
He stepped closer, his large hands reaching out to cup both sides of her face, his thumbs gently resting against her temples.
“You’re staying?” he whispered, his voice thick with an emotion he hadn't allowed himself to feel in twenty years.
“I choose what I do, Damian,” Hannah whispered back, using his first name for the very first time. “You agreed to my terms.”
Damian let out a low, breathless laugh—a real, genuine sound of joy that echoed off the high wooden ceiling.
He bent his head down and pressed his lips gently against her bruised cheekbone, right over the mark Vivien had left, lingering there for three long, beautiful seconds before pulling back to look into her hazel eyes.
“Then God help anyone who tries to enter this house without your permission,” Damian murmured softly.
Hannah looked up into his dark, unbroken face, her small hand rising to rest flat over his beating heart.
May you like
The wheelchair sat empty near the hearth, forgotten in the shadows.
The broken king was back on his throne, but for the first time in his dangerous, violent life, he wasn't standing alone.
