Chapter 10 - THE RETURN TO ASTOR STREET
Midnight had passed when the convoy rolled back through the gates of the Astor Street mansion.
The storm had completely cleared.
The sky above Lake Michigan was a vast sheet of black velvet, studded with a million brilliant, icy stars.
The mansion was ablaze with light.
Every chandelier in the grand windows was illuminated, casting golden rectangles across the pristine white snow of the courtyard.
Mrs. Gable stood on the front terrace holding two heavy woolen blankets.
When Rhett stepped out of the Maybach, carrying me in his arms, the entire household staff lined the grand staircase, bowing their heads in deep, emotional reverence.
They knew what had happened at the rail yards.
News travels fast in the Chicago underground.
They knew that their quiet, polite housekeeper—the girl who had cleaned their silver and mended their linens—had dismantled the Vance syndicate in forty-eight hours.
Rhett carried me straight up the marble stairs to the west wing suite.
He laid me down on the four-poster bed.
He took off my boots, tossing them aside, and tucked the heavy charcoal quilt around my shoulders.
He walked to the adjoining bathroom and returned with a basin of warm, scented water and a clean linen towel.
He pulled up a wooden chair beside the bed.
He sat down.
The most powerful, terrifying crime boss in the Midwest dipped the towel into the warm water.
He took my right hand.
He gently, methodically washed the black soot and motor grease from my fingers.
He cleaned the dried blood from my temple.
His touch was so light, so reverent, it felt like a prayer.
"You shouldn't be washing my hands, Rhett," I whispered, watching his dark eyelashes cast shadows against his cheekbones.
"I spent fourteen months cleaning your floors."
Rhett did not look up from his work.
"You spent fourteen months protecting this house while I was blind, Isa."
"You carried the proof of my father's murder in your apron."
"You stood in front of an anti-material rifle for me."
He lifted my clean fingers to his lips, kissing the knuckles one by one.
"There is nothing in this house too good for you."
I looked at his left shoulder.
The white linen of his shirt was stained with fresh red where his stitches had strained during the fight.
"You're bleeding again."
"Chen will re-stitch it in the morning," he said dismissively.
He set the basin aside.
He reached into his inner suit pocket.
He pulled out a small, flat black velvet box.
He held it in his palm.
My heart began to thump against my ribs, hard and fast, but this time, it wasn't from fear.
"Rhett..." I breathed.
Rhett opened the box.
Inside rested a magnificent ring.
Not syndicate gold.
Not a family heirloom steeped in blood and ancient treaties.
A band of polished platinum set with a single, flawless emerald-cut diamond flanked by two tapered baguettes.
Clean.
Modern.
Brilliant as the winter stars outside the window.
"I bought this ring four years ago, Isa," Rhett confessed, his voice dropping into a tender, vulnerable cadence I had never heard from him.
"The morning after I lost that poker game to Marcus Vance."
"I told myself that one day,"
"I would take this city back."
"And I would place this ring on the hand of the only woman I ever wanted beside me on the throne."
He took my uninjured right hand.
His fingers were steady now, warm and solid as mountain granite.
"You are free now, Isa."
"You can take your father's three million dollars."
"You can buy a villa in Tuscany."
"You can walk out those gates tomorrow morning and never look at a gun again."
He looked into my hazel eyes, his amber gaze burning with an intensity that laid his entire soul bare before me.
"Or you can stay here."
"Not as my housekeeper."
"Not as a protected witness."
"As my wife."
"My equal."
"The Queen of the Valin House."
Tears spilled over my lashes, hot and radiant against my cheeks.
I looked at the ring.
Then I looked at the man who had knelt beside me on my kitchen floor when I was bleeding in the dark.
The man who had thrown his body in front of an iron beam for me.
The man who had loved me from the shadows for fourteen months.
"Put it on my finger, Rhett," I whispered.
Rhett’s throat moved as he swallowed back an overwhelming surge of emotion.
He slid the platinum band onto my fourth finger.
It fit with impossible perfection.
He leaned down over the bed.
His hands framed my jaw with breathtaking tenderness.
He kissed me.
The kiss was slow, deep, filled with the fire of four years of longing and the sweet, absolute certainty of a love that had survived hell and claimed the light.
When he finally pulled back, resting his forehead against mine, his breathing was as ragged as my own.
"No more deadbolts, Isa," he whispered against my lips.
I smiled through my happy tears, my fingers tangling in the soft, dark hair at the nape of his neck.
May you like
"No more deadbolts, Rhett."
"I’m home."
