They Humiliated His Pregnant Maid—Until The Mafia Boss Asked, “Who Touched My Wife?”

The silence that followed the exit of Senator Garcia and his daughter was heavy, suffocating, and absolute.

Outside the West Dining Room windows, the rain continued to fall in relentless grey sheets. Inside, Vincent closed the double doors, leaving Dominic and Charlene alone amidst the scattered fragments of five-hundred-year-old porcelain and the faint smell of spilled mint tea.

Dominic didn't speak immediately. He reached down, picked Charlene up into his arms in a single, fluid movement—ignoring her soft gasp of protest—and carried her across the room toward the leather sofa in the corner.

"Dominic, put me down, I can walk—"

"Quiet," he murmured, setting her down gently on the soft leather cushions.

He pulled a low footstool over, rested her injured leg on it, and carefully removed her sock. The cut on her ankle was shallow—a jagged two-inch line that had already stopped bleeding heavily thanks to his handkerchief—but the sight of her blood on his floor seemed to have triggered a silent, volcanic fury inside him.

He reached into his inner pocket, pulled out a encrypted satellite phone, and speed-dialed a single number.

"Dr. Harmon," Dominic said, his voice flat. "Get to the estate now. Bring antiseptic, sutures, and a full fetal monitor."

He hung up without waiting for an answer.

Charlene reached out, taking his heavy, calloused hand between hers. Her fingers were cold, contrasting with the intense heat radiating from his skin.

"You broke cover," she said softly, her thumb rubbing the rough knuckles of his right hand. "The senator is going to go straight to the Petrovs. He knows something isn't right."

"Let him," Dominic snarled softly, sitting on the edge of the sofa beside her. He leaned in, resting his forehead against hers, his dark eyes burning with an intense, possessive light. "I should have broken his daughter's neck the second she raised her voice to you. I've spent eight months letting these vultures treat my home like a playground while you clean their messes."

"It was the plan," she reminded him quietly. "We agreed. The autumn gala is in ten days. If you strike at the Garcia family now, the Irish syndicate will back out of the West Wing treaty. They won't align with a boss who creates political instability before the docks are secured."

Dominic let out a long, ragged breath, his broad shoulders rising and falling. He brought her hand to his lips, kissing her knuckles one by one.

"Ten days," he muttered into her skin. "Ten days of letting you wear that goddamn apron."

"It's just clothes, Dominic."

"It's not just clothes," he snapped gently, looking up at her face—taking in the soft curve of her cheek, the exhaustion around her eyes, and the brave, quiet dignity she carried despite everything. "You are my wife. You carry the heir to everything I own. And I have you hiding in the servant quarters like a criminal while politicians' daughters throw dishes at your feet."

The door opened softly, and Vincent stepped inside, holding a glass of warm water and a clean towel. He set them on the table beside Charlene, offering her a brief, respectful nod.

"The senator's car just passed the main gates," Vincent reported quietly to Dominic. "Garcia was on his mobile before they even hit the avenue. He called Nikolai Petrov's chief lieutenant."

Dominic didn't look surprised. "What did he tell them?"

"He told them that something is wrong at the Hamilton estate. He claimed you've lost your mind over a pregnant servant, and that your focus is compromised." Vincent paused, his dark eyes darting briefly to Charlene. "Petrov has placed three reconnaissance teams on the perimeter road. They're watching the gates."

A cold, dark smile spread across Dominic's face—the smile of a predator that had successfully lured its prey into the kill zone.

"Good," Dominic said softly. "Let Petrov think I'm distracted. Let him think I'm weak."

"Boss," Vincent warned gently. "The gala is ten days away. If Petrov moves before the Irish sign the treaty—"

"Petrov won't move publicly before the gala," Dominic cut him off, standing up to his full height. "He's too arrogant. He wants to execute me in front of the entire syndicate at the West Wing signing. He thinks he's going to stage a coup while the senator provides political cover."

Dominic turned back to Charlene, reaching down to gently stroke her cheek.

"Vincent," Dominic commanded.

"Yes, Boss?"

"Effective immediately, Charlene does not clean another room. She does not carry another tray. She stays in the master suite on the third floor."

Charlene sat up quickly, her brow furrowing. "Dominic, no! If the staff sees me move into the master suite, the rumors will reach the street in an hour! Mrs. Gable—"

"Mrs. Gable works for me, not the senator," Dominic said with absolute authority. "And if anyone in this house breathes a single word about your location to anyone outside these walls, Vincent will handle them personally."