Chapter 7 - The Sanctuary of the West Wing and the Unspoken Debt
When the heavy oak doors of the drawing room finally clicked shut, the oppressive tension in the room shifted, replaced by a quiet, lingering exhaustion.
Roman turned away from the table, his eyes immediately finding Nora Ellis, who was still standing near the marble fireplace, holding a peacefully sleeping Maisie wrapped in the heavy wool blanket.
The soot had been washed from Nora’s face, but the raw, blistered burns across her hands and wrists stood out in stark, painful relief against her pale skin.
“Arthur,” Roman said, his tone softening noticeably as he addressed his security chief.
“Have Dr. Lewis come up from Greenwich immediately to treat Nora’s hands. And clear out the entire west wing guest suite. Move her belongings out of the staff quarters by noon.”
Nora looked up quickly, her exhaustion momentarily forgotten as a defensive spark flashed in her eyes.
“Roman, you don't need to do that,” she whispered, mindful not to wake the sleeping child in her arms.
“I’m a maid. The staff quarters are fine. I don't need special treatment just because—’
“You aren't a maid anymore, Nora,” Roman interrupted, walking over to stand just a few feet away from her.
He kept his hands carefully clasped behind his back, mindful of the soot and blood staining his own shirt, refusing to contaminate the space she occupied.
“As of today, you are the head of estate administration and family security logistics. Which means you live in the main house, you draw a senior executive salary, and you never, under any circumstances, clean another silver tray in this estate.”
Nora stared at him, stunned into silence.
“You can't just promote me because—”
“I own this estate, Nora,” Roman said, a faint, undeniable warmth breaking through the harsh lines of his face.
“I can appoint you mayor of Westchester if I feel like it. More importantly... you saved my life in that shed. And your daughter saved it first.”
He lowered his gaze to look at Maisie’s peaceful, soot-free face resting against Nora’s shoulder.
“I don't leave debts unpaid, Nora. Especially not to the people who kept me breathing when the floor was literally collapsing beneath my boots.”
Nora felt a sudden, hot lump form in her throat.
For years, ever since her husband had passed away and left her struggling to survive in the ruthless suburbs of New York, she had been invisible to the world—just another working-class mother trying to stretch minimum-wage housekeeping pay into rent and groceries.
Nobody looked twice at her.
Nobody protected her.
And certainly, no ruthless mafia boss had ever looked at her with the raw, absolute devotion currently burning in Roman DeLuca’s dark eyes.
“Thank you, Roman,” she whispered, her voice cracking slightly.
“For everything.”
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“Get your hands treated, Nora,” he commanded gently, turning toward the door.
“Arthur and I have a dinner party to plan for tomorrow night. And trust me... Frank Marcone is going to be our most honored guest.”
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