Chapter 16 - The Crimson Rose
The grand drawing room of the Westbrook estate was bathed in the warm, amber glow of a roaring fireplace, but the heavy tension in the room had nothing to do with the winter weather outside.
Nell sat on the edge of the velvet sofa, a cup of chamomile tea cooling forgotten in her hands. Across from her, young Archie was busy building an elaborate fortress out of wooden blocks on the Persian rug, humming a quiet tune to himself, completely shielded from the violent underworld realities that swirled just beyond the wrought-iron gates.
The heavy oak double doors swung open, and Dorian walked in.
He had discarded his tactical gear, wearing a dark cashmere sweater and slacks, but the faint scent of gunsmoke and ozone still clung to him. His dark hair was slightly damp from the lake mist, and a small, jagged scratch marred the side of his jaw—the only physical mark from the skirmish at Berth 4.
Nell’s breath caught in her throat. She stood up immediately, her dark eyes scanning him from head to toe, searching for hidden injuries.
“You’re hurt,” Nell whispered, crossing the room in a few quick strides and reaching out with trembling fingers to gently touch the scratch on his jaw.
Dorian paused, looking down into her deeply worried eyes. A faint, tender smile touched the corners of his lips. He covered her small hand with his large, calloused palm, pressing her fingers tighter against his skin.
“It’s nothing,” Dorian murmured, his voice softening into a low rumble meant only for her. “Just a calling card from a dead man.”
“You shouldn’t have to keep fighting like this,” Nell said, her voice laced with a sudden, aching vulnerability. “Every time you walk out those doors... I spend the whole night terrified that you won’t come back.”
Dorian’s expression shifted, the ruthless mafia boss completely vanishing, leaving only a man utterly captivated by the woman standing before him. He reached out with his free hand, gently sliding his fingers into her dark hair, tilting her face up so she had no choice but to meet his intense gaze.
“For thirty years, I didn’t care whether I came back or not,” Dorian confessed, his voice dropping into a raw, breathless whisper. “My life was just a ledger of debts and enemies. But the moment you looked me in the eye during that Christmas gift exchange and demanded what was yours... you broke every wall I spent a lifetime building.”
Nell’s heart hammered against her ribs like a trapped bird. “Dorian...”
Before she could speak another word, Dorian reached into his pocket and pulled out a single, flawless crimson rose—stem stripped of thorns, pristine and velvet-red—and gently tucked it behind her ear, letting his thumb brush softly against her cheekbone.
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“You are my life now, Nell,” Dorian whispered fiercely. “And nothing in this world—neither Moretti, nor the syndicate, nor death itself—is ever going to take that away from me.”
***
