Chapter 3 - THE THIRD FLOOR
The master wing on the third floor was built like a fortress. Heavy oak, soundproof insulation, and bullet-resistant glass framing the gray, storm-swept skyline of Chicago.
I didn't sleep. Every time I shut my eyes, I felt Vanessa’s manicured nails sinking into my flesh, heard the spiteful snap of cedar wood against my wrist, and remembered the icy cruelty in her voice: Know your place, little girl, or you won't live long enough to scrub another floor.
At 6:00 A.M., there was a single rap on my door.
I opened it to find Luca standing there, dressed in a charcoal three-piece suit. He looked immaculate, untouched by the revelation that his future wife and closest brother-in-arms were plotting his assassination. Behind him stood an older woman with sharp cheekbones, pushing a rolling garment rack draped in high-end tailored clothing.
"Elena," Luca said without looking back. "Fit her. Neutral tones. Nothing loud. She needs to blend into corporate settings."
"Yes, Mr. Moretti," the woman said, rolling the rack inside without asking questions.
"Luca," I began, catching myself. "Mr. Moretti. What is this?"
"At ten o'clock, we have a sit-down at the Drake Hotel," Luca said, checking the platinum watch on his wrist. "The Bellini family wants to finalize the maritime shipping routes that come with Vanessa’s dowry. Vanessa will be there. Marco will be running the perimeter."
"And me?"
"You'll be holding my tablet and taking notes," he said calmly. "Vanessa needs to know you survived the night. She needs to wonder why you aren't in the hospital, why you aren't fired, and why you are standing six inches behind my right shoulder."
"You're using me as bait."
"I'm using you as a mirror," he corrected, his voice dropping into that quiet, lethal register. "Guilty people panic when they look into a mirror that refuses to crack. If she thinks you told me everything, she’ll accelerate her timeline. When people rush, they make mistakes."
"And if she tries to finish what she started?"
Luca stepped into the threshold, closing the distance between us until I had to tilt my head up to hold his gaze. He reached out with terrifying gentleness, his thumb lightly brushing the edge of the white bandage on my wrist.
"Nobody touches what belongs to this house," he murmured. "Dress, Claire. We leave in forty minutes."
By 9:45 A.M., I was sitting in the back of an armored Maybach, wearing a sleek slate-gray pencil dress and an ivory coat that hid the swelling of my arm. Luca sat across from me, reviewing financial spreadsheets on a secure terminal.
The car pulled under the grand portico of the Drake. The door was opened from the outside.
Marco stood there.
He was tall, broad-shouldered, with an easy, boyish grin that completely masked the snake beneath. "Morning, Boss," Marco said smoothly, offering a hand to help Luca out. "Perimeter is tight. Don Bellini is already upstairs in the private dining room."
Then Marco’s eyes shifted to me as I stepped out of the vehicle.
The smile on his face didn't vanish—it froze. A micro-fracture in his polished veneer. His pupils dilated as his gaze drifted from my face down to my bandaged left wrist, then back up to Luca.
"Who's this?" Marco asked, keeping his tone light, though the muscle in his jaw ticked. "New staff?"
"Claire Dawson," Luca said casually, buttoning his jacket. "My new executive aide. Vanessa recommended her last night. Said she was exceptionally resilient."
Marco’s eyes narrowed by a fraction of a millimeter. "Is that so?"
"Come along, Claire," Luca said, ignoring him completely and walking toward the brass revolving doors.
I followed half a step behind Luca, feeling Marco’s gaze boring into the center of my back like the crosshairs of a rifle. As we crossed the lobby, my phone—a brand-new encrypted device Luca’s tech team had handed me twenty minutes earlier—vibrated once in my coat pocket.
I slipped it out while stepping into the private elevator.
It was an unknown number. A single text message:
I don't know what you think you told him, maid. But if you sit at that table today, you won't survive the ride home.
I stared at the glowing screen. Then, slowly, I tilted the phone toward Luca.
He looked down, read the words, and didn't even blink. He reached out, took the phone from my hand, and typed a four-word reply:
She sits with me.
May you like
He pressed send, handed the device back, and watched the elevator floor indicator tick upward.
"Now," Luca whispered as the bell chimed for the penthouse, "let’s go see my bride."
