Chapter 7
The heavy, suffocating tension that had gripped the garden party finally broke the moment Malcolm crossed the threshold into the cool, air-conditioned interior of the massive estate. Behind him, the muffled sounds of Evelyn’s hysterical protests faded as his men dragged her away to her newly appointed prison. The party guests outside were already quietly dispersing, terrified to linger near the epicenter of the boss's wrath.
Malcolm walked swiftly through the grand marble hallways, completely ignoring the priceless art and antique furnishings. His sole focus was the small, trembling boy in his arms. The medical heart monitor clipped beneath Caleb’s torn shirt was still beeping, but the frantic, rapid chirping had subsided into a steady, rhythmic pulse. The immediate danger had passed, but the trauma of the afternoon still radiated from the child's small frame.
"We're inside now, Caleb," Malcolm murmured softly, his deep voice carrying a comforting rumble. "The sun can't hurt you anymore. You're safe."
Caleb slowly lifted his head from Malcolm's shoulder, his large brown eyes looking around the familiar, opulent surroundings of the estate. His face was still stained with dirt and tears, and his torn, filthy clothes clung uncomfortably to his sweating skin. He let out a long, shaky breath, his tiny hands relaxing their death grip on Malcolm's dark three-piece suit.
"Daddy," Caleb whispered, his voice hoarse from crying and the severe dehydration. "My throat is so dry. It hurts."
"I know, little man. I know," Malcolm replied gently, his heart aching at the sound of his son's suffering. "I'm going to get you some water right now. Real water, not the kind they pour on the ground."
Malcolm carried Caleb directly into the expansive, state-of-the-art kitchen at the back of the estate. The private chef and kitchen staff, having heard the commotion outside, immediately scrambled out of the way, keeping their heads down in silent respect as the boss entered.
Malcolm set Caleb down gently on the cool granite surface of the kitchen island. He quickly grabbed a clean glass from the cabinet, filled it with cool, filtered water, and handed it to his son.
"Drink it slowly, Caleb," Malcolm instructed, his large hand resting protectively on the boy's back. "Not too fast, or it will make your stomach ache."
Caleb grabbed the glass with both hands, his small fingers trembling slightly, and took slow, careful sips. The cool water worked like magic, immediately soothing his raw throat and bringing a faint bit of color back to his medium-brown skin.
Malcolm watched him closely, his deep, piercing eyes scanning the angry red welts around the boy's ankle where the heavy metal chain had bitten into his flesh. The sight of the bruises reignited the cold, lethal fury burning deep inside Malcolm's chest, but he forced it down. Caleb needed a father right now, not a Mafia boss.
"Better?" Malcolm asked softly as Caleb lowered the half-empty glass.
"Yes, Daddy," Caleb nodded weakly, leaning forward to rest his forehead against Malcolm's broad chest. "Thank you."
"You never have to thank me for protecting you, Caleb," Malcolm said fiercely, gently cupping the back of the boy's head. "You are my son. My blood. No one will ever touch you again. I swear it on my life."
Before Malcolm could say anything else, the heavy kitchen doors swung open. Marcus, the massive bodyguard who had hauled Evelyn away, stepped inside. He looked uneasy, a rare expression for the hardened enforcer.
"Boss," Marcus said quietly, keeping a respectful distance. "We have a problem."
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Malcolm didn't turn around, keeping his focus entirely on his son. "Speak, Marcus."
"Evelyn made a call before the party," Marcus reported grimly. "She reached out to the Barzini family in New York. They were backing her play to have you removed. And now... they know what you did to her."
