Maria looks at me, then her dark eyes drop to the small, exhausted girl bundled against my chest. For a fraction of a second, absolute shock shatters the older woman’s usually impenetrable composure. She has known me since I was a ruthless, emotionless teenager. She has never, not once, seen me bring a woman into this compound. And she certainly has never seen me holding someone with the terrifying, obsessive care I am displaying right now.
"Don Thorne," Maria says, quickly recovering, dipping her head in a deep, respectful nod. "Welcome home. We were not expecting you to relocate so suddenly."
"The city is no longer secure," I state flatly, my voice echoing off the cold marble walls. "We are operating under wartime protocols as of this morning."
Maria’s jaw tightens. She understands exactly what that means. "Of course. And this is... the newDonna?"
"This is my wife," I correct, the possessive edge in my voice sharpening into a lethal blade. I shift Sybil slightly higher in my arms. "Her name is Sybil. And the rules regarding her existence in this house are absolute."
I turn my icy, unblinking gaze to the three young maids. They visibly tremble under the weight of my stare.
"No one speaks to her unless spoken to first," I command, my voice dropping to a low, resonant frequency that promises absolute destruction. "No one enters our private wing without my direct, explicit permission. If she asks for a glass of water, you bring her the entire fucking well. And if I find out that anyone in this house has caused her distress, raised their voice to her, or made her feel anything less than entirely safe..." I let the silence stretch, thick and heavy with the promise of violence. "You will not live long enough to regret it."
"Yes, Boss," the three maids whisper in terrified unison.
"Maria," I say, bringing my attention back to the housekeeper. "Have a hot meal prepared and sent to the master suite. Something light. Broth, bread, fruit. Her stomach is fragile."
Maria nods, her eyes softening just a fraction as she looks at Sybil’s pale, exhausted face. "Right away, Thayer. I will draw a warm bath for her as well—"
"No," I interrupt smoothly. "I will handle the bath. Just bring the food and leave it outside the doors."
Maria blinks, entirely thrown off balance by the bizarre, pathological depth of my involvement. Mafia Dons do not draw baths for their wives. They do not coddle. They demand, they take, and they leave the caretaking to the hired help.
But Sybil is not a normal wife. And I am not a normal man.
I do not wait for Maria’s response. I carry Sybil up the sweeping black marble staircase, my long strides eating up the distance to the heavily fortified double doors of the master wing.
The suite spans the entire southern half of the second floor. It is designed exactly like the penthouse—floor-to-ceiling reinforced glass, dark mahogany, and heavy, brooding luxury—but the view here is entirely different. Instead of the chaotic skyline of Chicago, the massive windows look out over the dense, mist-shrouded forest, creating an oppressive, beautiful sense of total isolation.
There is nowhere to run here. There is only the cage, and the endless, dark woods.
I carry her straight into the cavernous master bathroom. It is a temple of dark slate and brushed gunmetal. I gently set her down on the plush, heated bench inside the massive glass shower enclosure, keeping one arm securely around her waist to ensure she doesn't slip.
Her eyes flutter open, heavy and completely disoriented. The midnight blue of her irises is clouded with exhaustion. She looks around the dark, unfamiliar room, her breathing instantly hitching as panic tries to claw its way back to the surface.
"Where... where are we?" she rasps, her hands flying up to grip my forearms.
"We are at the compound," I answer softly, keeping my voice low and steady to ground her. "You are completely safe, Sybil. No one can touch you here."
She stares at my chest, her mind sluggishly processing the information. "You... you carried me."
"You were asleep," I state, reaching past her to turn the heavy metal dials of the shower.
The water roars to life, immediately filling the massive enclosure with thick, warm steam. The temperature in the room rises, chasing away the freezing chill of the Chicago rain.
"I need to wash," she whispers, looking down at her shaking hands. She is still operating under the phantom commands of her father—the need to be pristine, perfect, and unblemished.
"I know," I say. "Stand up."
She hesitates, her eyes darting to my face. The absolute terror of physical intimacy is warring with her complete bodily exhaustion. She is wearing the heavy sweater and the leggings, and the prospect of undressing in front of me again is clearly triggering the trauma I witnessed in the penthouse closet.
"Sybil," I murmur, capturing her chin between my thumb and index finger, forcing her to look into my gray eyes. "I am not going to hurt you. I am not going to take you. I am going to wash the freezing cold out of your bones, and then I am going to put you in a warm bed. Let me take care of you."
The cognitive dissonance completely paralyzes her. The monster is offering a sanctuary.
Slowly, her shoulders slump. She gives a tiny, almost imperceptible nod.
I help her to her feet. My hands are methodical, entirely detached from the burning, primal lust that constantly rages in my blood whenever I am near her. I grip the hem of the heavy cashmere sweater and pull it over her head, discarding it onto the dry slate floor outside the glass. I peel the leggings down her hips, leaving her standing entirely bare in the cool air.
