Chapter 6 - The Gilded Fortress of Blackwood Manor
The heavy wrought-iron gates of Blackwood Manor groaned open in the pouring rain.
A motorcade of three armored vehicles rolled smoothly up the winding, tree-lined cobblestone driveway.
Ancient oak trees, stripped bare by the coming autumn, stood like skeletal sentries along the perimeter wall.
High-resolution security cameras whirred quietly on stone pillars, tracking every tire rotation.
Delphine sat in the corner of the leather back seat, clutching her canvas shoulder bag against her ribs like a bulletproof vest.
Her knuckles were white.
Her mouth tasted like copper and cold hospital coffee.
Three years ago, she had run down this exact driveway in the middle of a blinding January blizzard.
Her bare hands had frozen against the iron bars as she slipped through the maintenance gate.
She had promised herself on that freezing night that she would rather starve on a concrete floor than ever set foot inside these gates again.
Now, the heavy doors of the SUV clicked unlocked, breaking the silence.
Sloan stepped out first into the rain.
A security guard immediately rushed forward with a large black umbrella, holding it high over Sloan’s head.
Sloan waved the guard away with an impatient flick of his wrist.
He reached back into the vehicle, offering his broad, calloused hand to Delphine.
Delphine looked at his hand, then looked up into his unreadable gray eyes.
“I can walk on my own, Sloan,” she said, her voice raspy from exhaustion.
“Your ankles are twice their normal size, Delphine,” he answered without a hint of compromise.
“Stop fighting battles you already lost tonight.”
Before she could formulate an insult, Sloan leaned inside, slipped one arm beneath her knees, and scooped her up into his chest.
Delphine gasped, instinctively gripping the wet lapels of his wool coat to keep from falling.
“Put me down!” she hissed, the heat rising into her cheeks as half a dozen armed guards averted their eyes.
“I am seven months pregnant, not an invalid!”
“You just performed a field tracheotomy on a dining room floor, stood on your feet for six hours, and nearly collapsed in the triage bay,” Sloan said, carrying her up the sweeping granite steps toward the massive double oak front doors.
“You are not taking another step until the physician clears your vitals.”
The heavy entrance doors swung inward, revealing the vast, vaulted foyer of Blackwood Manor.
The familiar scent hit Delphine like a physical blow.
Polished mahogany.
Beeswax.
Old leather-bound books.
And the faint, ever-present undertone of gun oil and cold stone.
Nothing had changed.
The grand marble staircase still curved upward toward the east and west wings like the spine of a sleeping beast.
The massive crystal chandelier hung from the frescoed ceiling, casting fractured gold light across the checkered floor.
An older woman in a pressed navy dress stood waiting at the foot of the stairs, her hands clasped tightly in front of her apron.
Mrs. Gable, the head housekeeper who had managed the estate for thirty years.
When Mrs. Gable saw Delphine cradled in Sloan’s arms, the woman’s composure shattered.
Her hand flew to her mouth.
Tears instantly welled in the old woman’s eyes.
“Mrs. Marchetti?” Mrs. Gable whispered, her voice trembling with disbelief.
“Dear God in heaven… you’re alive.”
Delphine felt a deep pang of sorrow in her chest.
Mrs. Gable had bandaged her cuts when Delphine was an exhausted young bride trying to navigate the brutal expectations of the syndicate.
She had brought Delphine warm tea during the darkest nights of Sloan’s ruthless turf wars.
“Hello, Martha,” Delphine said quietly, offering a faint, apologetic smile.
“It’s good to see you.”
Sloan did not stop to indulge in sentimental reunions.
He carried Delphine past the housekeeper, heading directly toward the private elevator behind the grand staircase.
“Prepare the master suite immediately,” Sloan commanded over his shoulder.
“Set up the guest wing for the medical staff.”
“I want fresh linens, bone broth, and clean water brought up in ten minutes.”
“Yes, Mr. Marchetti,” Mrs. Gable answered, snapping back into professional efficiency despite her shock.
Delphine stiffened in Sloan’s arms as they entered the elevator.
“Not the master suite,” Delphine said, her voice sharpening with desperate defiance.
“Put me in the guest quarters near the staff hall.”
“I am not sleeping in your bed, Sloan.”
The elevator doors slid shut with a muted ding, ascending smoothly toward the top floor.
Sloan looked down at her face, his features carved from granite.
“You are my wife,” he stated, his voice calm, chilling, and absolute.
“You sleep where I sleep.”
“I am your hostage,” Delphine retorted, glaring into his eyes.
“Call it whatever helps you sleep at night,” Sloan whispered, stepping closer to her face until she could feel the heat radiating from his collarbone.
“Hostage, wife, queen.”
“The title doesn't change the reality.”
“You are under my roof, carrying my son, and you will never leave this compound again.”
Delphine’s heart skipped a beat at his words.
“A son?” she mocked, trying to mask the sudden flutter of panic in her belly.
“Dr. Vance didn’t disclose the gender.”
“I don’t need a doctor to tell me the nature of the storm growing inside you,” Sloan said, a dangerous flicker of pride illuminating his dark gaze.
“A boy or a girl, it carries my blood.”
“That means half the underworld would slit its throat in the crib just to break my back.”
The elevator doors opened directly into the private master wing.
The suite was colossal, spanning the entire eastern wing of the manor with panoramic windows overlooking the dense, dark pine forest.
A roaring fire was already crackling in the massive stone fireplace, casting dancing shadows over the plush velvet couches and the king-sized four-poster bed.
Sloan walked straight to the bed and set Delphine down onto the thick down mattress.
Delphine immediately shifted backward, pulling her knees up toward her chest and pressing her spine against the carved wooden headboard.
She felt small in this room.
Vulnerable.
Trapped.
Sloan reached down, untying the laces of her dirty, waterlogged non-slip work shoes.
He slid them off her feet, dropping them onto the hardwood floor with two heavy thuds.
He pulled off her thin, soaked socks, exposing her swollen feet and red, bruised ankles.
Delphine tried to pull her legs back under her skirt, but Sloan held her ankles in his large, warm palms.
His thumbs rubbed gentle circles over the swelling at her Achilles tendons.
His hands were warm.
Devastatingly gentle.
The contrast between his terrifying ruthlessness and his quiet tenderness was the exact poison that had seduced her five years ago.
“Stop it,” Delphine whispered, turning her face toward the crackling fire to hide the moisture gathering in her eyes.
“Don’t pretend to be gentle, Sloan.”
“It makes it harder to hate you.”
Sloan paused, his thumbs resting against her skin.
“I never asked you to love me tonight, Delphine,” he said softly, rising slowly to his feet.
“Hate me all you want.”
“Curse my name until your throat is raw.”
“Throw the china against the wall if it brings you peace.”
“As long as you are safe behind these walls, your hatred is a price I will pay every single second of my life.”
A knock sounded at the double doors of the suite.
Dr. Catherine Vance entered, carrying a large medical diagnostic kit and a stack of clean hospital monitoring devices.
Two armed guards stood just outside the open door, keeping watch over the hallway.
“Mr. Marchetti, the continuous fetal monitor and IV fluid lines are prepped,” Dr. Vance said, keeping her tone strictly clinical.
“We need to establish an intravenous line for Mrs. Marchetti to treat her dehydration and mild electrolyte imbalance.”
Sloan stepped back from the bed, his demeanor instantly returning to that of the untouchable mob patriarch.
“Do whatever is necessary to keep them stable,” Sloan ordered.
He turned his gaze back to Delphine.
“I have business in the study with Bishop.”
“Get some sleep.”
“Don’t even think about the balcony doors.”
“They are reinforced bulletproof glass, locked from the central security grid.”
Delphine glared at him as he turned on his heel.
“I hate you, Sloan,” she called out as he reached the threshold.
Sloan stopped for a fraction of a second.
May you like
He did not look back.
“I know,” he said quietly, stepping through the doorway as the heavy oak doors shut behind him with the finality of a prison cell.
