Chapter 2 - THE MIDNIGHT AUDIT
Dr. Harris finished winding the elastic bandage around my left wrist at precisely 10:48 P.M.
He didn’t ask about the bruises. Men like Dr. Harris stayed on the Moretti payroll because they understood the precise value of medical silence. He handed me a bottle of muscle relaxants, whispered that nothing was fractured—only deeply sprained and heavily contused—and left the small servant’s quarters near the east wing attic without making eye contact.
I sat on the edge of the twin bed, staring down at the white wrap. My fingers were throbbing in rhythm with my pulse.
Every instinct I possessed screamed at me to pack my canvas duffel, walk down the back fire escape, and catch the first outbound bus to anywhere west of the Mississippi. I wasn't an idiot. When you find yourself wedged between a Syndicate kingpin and a treacherous fiancée who snaps bones behind locked linen doors, you don't stick around to see who buys the wedding cake.
Then my bedroom door opened without a knock.
Luca Moretti filled the doorframe. He had stripped off his suit jacket; his white cuffs were rolled twice up his forearms, revealing the dark ink of a coiled viper creeping past his wrist. In his left hand, he held a plastic evidence sleeve containing the silver micro-SD card his security team had stolen from my locker.
He stepped inside and closed the door behind him with a click that sounded like a chambered round.
"You have twenty seconds to explain why this was in your locker, Claire," he said. His voice wasn’t loud, but it had the chilling density of deep water. "And if you lie, Dr. Harris is coming right back up those stairs to reset bones instead of wrapping them."
My breath hitched. I stood up, tucking my injured hand behind my hip. "I didn't steal anything from your office, Mr. Moretti."
"I know you didn't," he replied coldly, stepping closer until the scent of cedarwood, expensive scotch, and cold winter air rolled off him. "The timestamps prove you were cleaning the downstairs solarium when these files were taken. Vanessa was in my study. Along with Marco."
Marco Bellisario. Luca’s childhood friend, his right hand, and the man slated to stand beside him at the altar of Holy Name Cathedral in three weeks.
"If you know who took them," I whispered, "why are you standing in my room?"
"Because you had the card." Luca tapped the plastic sleeve against his knuckles. "Which means you were in the linen closet for a reason. And it wasn't to count bedsheets."
The small room grew suffocatingly warm. I looked into his eyes—gray as slate, completely stripped of whatever civilized facade he wore down at the dinner table.
"She dropped it," I said, my voice shaking despite my best efforts. "Yesterday afternoon, I was vacuuming the second-floor library. I saw her slip something into the cuff of her sleeve after coming out of your office. This afternoon, while I was folding linens, Miss Bellini came in. She was searching the shelves behind the spare duvets. She looked panicked. When she turned around and saw me standing there holding the towels, she grabbed my wrist."
I swallowed the dry lump in my throat.
"She wanted to know if I had been in the linen press earlier. She twisted my arm against the cedar shelf to make me talk. When she shoved me down, the card fell out of her purse lining. It bounced under the baseboard. She didn't notice it. She just locked the door from the outside to make sure I missed dinner service so you'd fire me for unreliability."
Luca didn't blink. "You pried the baseboard off with your swollen hand, took the card, and hid it in your locker instead of bringing it to me. Why?"
"Because Marco runs your security detail, Mr. Moretti," I said, meeting his gaze head-on. "Who was I supposed to give it to? You were sitting beside her smiling, and your best friend was standing by the foyer holding an assault rifle. If I spoke up, I wouldn't have been fired. I would have ended up in Lake Michigan."
A slow, terrifying stillness settled over Luca’s face. He looked at me for five long seconds—not like a boss evaluating an employee, but like a predator measuring a survivor.
"Pack your things," he said.
Panic flared in my chest. "Mr. Moretti, please—"
"You're not leaving the property," he cut in smoothly. "You're moving into the suite adjacent to mine on the third floor. Effective tonight, you are no longer a maid."
"Then what am I?"
May you like
Luca turned toward the door, his hand resting on the brass knob. He glanced back over his shoulder, his eyes glittering in the dim light.
"You're the only person in this house who doesn't owe Marco or Vanessa a favor. Starting tomorrow morning, you are my personal assistant. And you're going to help me watch them burn."
