Chapter 4 - Shadows in the West Wing
The silence that followed Luca’s declaration was deafening.
Isabella opened her mouth to speak, but no sound came out. Her carefully maintained persona of society perfection completely fractured. Her eyes darted from Luca, to Dr. Callahan, and finally landed on me, sitting helpless in the leather chair with half-splinted fingers.
“You’re bluffing,” she managed to choke out, her voice shrill and thin. “You wouldn’t destroy my family. It would tank your own stock by twenty points!”
“Watch me,” Luca said simply.
He didn't raise his voice. He didn't sneer. He simply looked at the two security guards standing behind her.
“Escort Miss Rossi off the grounds,” Luca commanded. “She takes her personal jewelry and the clothes she arrived in. Everything else remains. If her vehicle is still past the security gates in ten minutes, impound it.”
“Luca! You cannot do this!” Isabella shrieked as the two guards reluctantly, but firmly, took her by the elbows. “I am your fiancée! We are announced in the Times! My father will bleed you dry for this! You hear me? He will bleed you dry!”
Her screams echoed down the long marble corridor until the heavy front doors slammed shut, cutting her off mid-threat.
A heavy, thick stillness settled over the house.
Dr. Callahan exhaled a long breath, carefully wrapping the medical tape around my splinted fingers, securing the rigid brace against my wrist. “Well,” he murmured dryly, “that certainly wasn't in my usual evening house-call itinerary.”
“Is she stable?” Luca asked, ignoring the doctor's dry humor entirely.
“The splint is secure,” Callahan said, packing his instruments back into his leather bag. “I gave her a localized anti-inflammatory injection. It will numb the throbbing for about eight hours. But Emma, you must take these pain pills and rest. If you displace those fractures, we’ll have to operate and put pins in.”
“I understand,” I whispered. “Thank you, Doctor.”
Callahan patted my uninjured shoulder gently, nodded to Luca, and took his leave, his footsteps vanishing down the hallway.
Once again, it was just the two of us.
The fire popped, a shower of orange sparks drifting up the chimney flue. I tried to stand up from the chair, but my knees were like water. The adrenaline that had carried me through the last forty-eight hours suddenly evaporated, leaving me utterly exhausted and trembling.
Luca was there instantly.
Before I could stumble, his strong arms were around me, steadying my waist. His scent enveloped me—cedar, crisp winter air, and that subtle, intoxicating undertone of expensive spice.
“Careful,” he murmured, his voice right by my ear.
“I’m sorry,” I stammered, my face burning as I tried to pull back to maintain professional distance. “I’m just... dizzy. I’ll go up to the third-floor staff quarters.”
“You are not going to the third floor,” Luca said firmly, keeping one hand securely on the small of my back. “There are three flights of narrow stairs, and nobody to monitor you if you develop shock or a fever. You’re moving to the west wing.”
My eyes widened. “The west wing? Mr. Moretti, that’s where your suite is. The guest suites there are for visiting executives and diplomats. The staff isn't allowed—”
“Emma,” he cut in, his hazel eyes locking onto mine with an intensity that made my breath hitch. “Stop talking about yourself as staff. An hour ago, you protected my daughter from seeing violence. Yesterday, you took a beating that was meant to break your spirit, and you didn't say a word because you were afraid of causing trouble for this household.”
He leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a gravelly whisper.
“In this house, loyalty is rewarded. You are not sleeping in the attic.”
Before I could protest further, he swept his other arm under my knees and lifted me off the floor.
I gasped, instinctively throwing my left arm around his broad neck to steady myself. “Mr. Moretti! Put me down, I can walk!”
“You almost collapsed two seconds ago,” he said without breaking stride, carrying me effortlessly out of the study and down the quiet, vaulted hallway toward the grand staircase.
Every nerve in my body fired at once. The solid heat of his chest against my side, the effortless power in his arms, the terrifying closeness of his jawline—shadowed with evening stubble—sent a sensation rushing through me that had nothing to do with fear or broken bones.
We climbed the sweeping marble staircase. The estate was eerily quiet now. The maids and footmen had wisely retreated to their quarters, sensing the seismic shift in the household’s power dynamic.
Luca carried me down the carpeted west wing gallery, stopping outside a heavy pair of mahogany doors two doors down from his own master suite. He nudged the door open with his foot and carried me inside.
The room was enormous. A king-sized bed with an ivory silk duvet sat beneath a towering canopy. A gas fireplace flickered quietly in the corner, already casting a soft, golden glow over plush velvet chairs and polished wood.
Luca walked over to the bed and laid me down with breathtaking gentleness, as if I were made of spun glass. He pulled the heavy duvet over my legs, then stepped back, his chest rising and falling with slow, controlled breaths.
“There are fresh clothes in the adjoining dressing room,” he said. “I’ll have Mrs. Gable bring up some soup and tea. If you need anything—anything at all—the intercom by the bed dials directly to my desk and my bedroom.”
I lay there against the mountain of pillows, feeling impossibly small.
“Why are you doing this for me?” I asked, unable to stop the question. “You could have just fired Isabella and given me a settlement. That’s what men in your position do. You don't carry the nanny to the master wing.”
Luca stood at the foot of the bed, his silhouette dark against the warm firelight. For a moment, he didn't answer. He looked down at his own hands, then back up at me.
“When my wife died three years ago,” Luca said, his voice stripped of all corporate armor, raw and desolate, “Sofia stopped speaking. For six months, she didn't say a single word. Not ‘Daddy.’ Not ‘hungry.’ Nothing. Child psychologists told me she had selective mutism brought on by trauma. They told me she might never recover her voice.”
A cold chill ran over my skin. Sofia had never mentioned her mother to me, and Luca’s late wife was a subject nobody in the house dared to bring up.
“Then you answered an advertisement through the agency,” Luca continued softly. “You sat on the rug in the nursery on your first day. You didn't push her. You didn't try to bribe her with toys like the other ten nannies did. You just sat there, humming an old lullaby, and began building a block tower.”
He took a step closer to the edge of the bed.
“By the fourth day, Sofia knocked your tower over and laughed. And then she spoke to you.”
My throat tightened, tears stinging behind my eyes.
“You gave me my daughter back, Emma,” Luca whispered. “Isabella thought she was striking a helpless servant. She didn't understand that she was touching the only person who brought life back into this mausoleum.”
He reached out, his warm, rough fingers brushing a stray lock of hair away from my forehead. The touch was so tender, so completely at odds with his ruthless reputation, that a shudder ran through my entire body.
“Rest now,” he said, withdrawing his hand slowly, as if with great reluctance. “Tomorrow, the storm gets worse.”
He turned and walked toward the door.
“Mr. Moretti?” I called out quietly.
He paused, glancing back over his shoulder.
“Thank you.”
A ghost of a smile touched the corner of his lips. “Sleep, Emma.”
The heavy door clicked shut.
I sank back into the pillows, the dull ache in my hand fading under the doctor's medicine, replaced by an intoxicating, terrifying chaos in my mind.
I knew he was right. Tomorrow, Victor Rossi would strike back. The city’s elite would demand answers. The empire would shake.
May you like
And somehow, I was standing right at the center of the earthquake.
***
