Chapter 3 - The Quiet in the Library
The medication Dr. Evans gave me dulled the sharp edges of the throbbing, leaving my leg encased in a rigid, lightweight walking boot and wrapped in cooling gel packs. He had helped me into the small guest suite adjacent to the nursery—insisting that under no circumstances was I to climb down to the servants' quarters on the ground floor.
I hadn’t slept. Not a single wink.
Every time I closed my eyes, I heard the faint, muffled murmur of voices from the south wing hours earlier. No shouting. Luca Moretti didn’t shout. His anger was a frozen river—silent on the surface, dragging everything underneath to a dark, cold bottom.
By seven in the morning, the mansion was drowning in a heavy Chicago fog. The gray light filtered through the tall arched windows, casting long shadows across the Persian carpets.
A soft knock came at my door.
It wasn't Isabella, and it wasn't the housekeeper.
Luca stood in the doorway. He was dressed in a fresh dark charcoal suit, his hair slightly damp from the shower, a steaming mug of black coffee in one hand.
“Can you walk with the crutches Evans left?” he asked.
“Yes, sir.”
“Good. My study. Ten minutes.”
He didn't wait for a reply.
Ten minutes later, the rubber tips of my crutches clicked against the polished parquet floor of Luca’s private library. It was the only room in the entire three-story mansion that was completely off-limits to everyone—including Isabella. The walls were lined with thousands of leather-bound volumes, floor-to-ceiling mahogany shelves reachable only by a brass rolling ladder. A massive oak desk sat before tall windows overlooking Lake Michigan, which churned gray and restless under the autumn wind.
Luca sat behind the desk, a leather folder open before him.
He gestured toward a plush leather wingback chair across from him. “Sit.”
I lowered myself into the chair, leaning the crutches against the wood. My hands felt cold, sweating against the fabric of my skirt.
“How is the ankle?” he asked.
“Much better. Dr. Evans said the bone is intact, just a severe sprain.”
“Good.” He closed the folder with a soft snap. “Now tell me what she said to you.”
I looked down at my lap, picking at an invisible thread on my sweater. “Mr. Moretti, I understand that you're upset, but this is between you and Miss Romano. I am an employee. If my presence is causing tension in your household before your wedding, perhaps it’s best if I look for another family—”
“Stop.”
The command wasn't loud, but it had the weight of an iron door slamming shut.
Luca leaned forward, resting his forearms on the desk. The morning light caught the sharp angle of his jaw, highlighting the dark stubble that shadowed his skin.
“You think this is about a wedding?” he asked.
I blinked, taken aback. “You're getting married in three months.”
“I am engaged to a Romano because business requires alliances,” he said flatly. “The Romanos control the distribution terminals at the port. My shipping lines need those docks. It was an arrangement agreed upon by two families who understand power.”
He leaned back, his eyes narrowing as he studied my face.
“What was *not* part of the agreement was allowing anyone—regardless of their surname—to treat the people who care for my daughter like disposable objects.”
My chest tightened. “She was angry because Sofia wanted me to read to her instead of Isabella. Sofia didn’t mean to hurt her feelings, she was just tired—”
“Sofia has excellent instincts,” Luca interrupted smoothly. “Children know who loves them and who is performing for an audience. Isabella has spent six months performing. Sofia saw through it on day one.”
He tapped a finger against the closed folder.
“What did she say to you, Emma? Word for word.”
I swallowed against the dry knot in my throat. Seeing the iron determination in his eyes, I knew I had nowhere left to hide.
“She told me that I was becoming a little too important to Sofia,” I confessed, my voice barely audible above the hum of the heating vents. “She told me I was an employee, and that I needed to act like one. When I tried to walk away, she grabbed my arm. She pulled me hard enough that my heel caught the edge of the runner. When I fell, she didn’t offer to help. She told me I should watch where I stepped.”
Luca didn’t flinch. His expression remained utterly still, but the muscles along his jaw ticked with dangerous rhythm.
“And the east guest room?” he asked. “Why did she invent that?”
“Because there are no cameras in the east wing,” I said, the realization hitting me as I spoke it aloud. “The east wing is being renovated. The security feeds are disconnected over there.”
A cold, terrifying smile touched Luca’s lips. It was the kind of smile that preceded an execution.
“Very clever,” he murmured. “She knew that if the staff saw you injured, questions would be asked. So she placed you in the only corridor where my cameras couldn't contradict her story.”
He stood up, walking slowly around the massive desk until he was standing beside my chair. The sheer physical presence of the man was overwhelming—he radiated authority, danger, and a strange, deeply unsettling brand of protection that made my pulse race erratically.
“Listen to me, Emma,” he said, looking down at me with unyielding focus. “You do not look for another family. You do not pack your bags. You do not leave this house.”
“Mr. Moretti, Isabella will make it impossible—”
“Isabella does not own this house,” he said, his voice dropping an octave, rich and dark. “I do. And more importantly, Sofia loves you. In the two years since her mother died, you are the only person who has made that little girl laugh without fear.”
The raw honesty in his words struck me like a physical blow. Elena Moretti had died in a tragic car accident when Sofia was five, leaving a dark void in this house that money and marble could never fill. When I took the nanny position six months ago, Sofia had been a ghost—silent, withdrawn, refusing to speak more than two words at a time. It had taken months of patience, late-night stories, and quiet understanding to bring the light back into her dark eyes.
“I won't abandon Sofia,” I whispered.
“I know you won't,” Luca said. He reached down, and for a fleeting, breathless second, his fingers brushed against the stray curl of hair tucked behind my ear. His touch was unexpectedly tender, completely at odds with his reputation as the ruthless kingpin of Chicago’s underbelly.
“From this moment on,” he added, pulling his hand away as if recalling himself, “you answer only to me. Not to the household manager. Not to the event planners. And under no circumstances do you take an order from Isabella Romano.”
“What did you say to her last night?” I couldn't stop myself from asking.
Luca turned back toward the window, looking out over the violent, frothing waves of the lake.
May you like
“I told her that if she ever touches anyone under my protection again,” he said, his voice as cold as the November wind against the glass, “the docks won't save her family from being wiped off the map.”
***
