Chapter 3 - The Cold Marble
Upstairs in the east wing of the mansion, the smell of rubbing alcohol and sterile gauze filled the air of the master guest suite.
I sat on the edge of an enormous four-poster bed, wearing a dark gray wool sweater and a long black skirt that Mrs. Carter, the head housekeeper, had pulled from a cedar chest. My soaked housekeeping dress was hanging over the radiator in the bathroom, dripping water into a ceramic basin, but the chill from the stone pond still seemed to run through my marrow.
Dr. Harris finished wrapping a compression bandage around my right knee, securing the final strip of tape with a sharp tug.
"You were remarkably fortunate, Sophie," the doctor said, packing his instruments into a weathered black leather bag. "The stone fountain ledge missed the patellar tendon by less than half an inch. But you have four deep lacerations that required eight stitches, and the bruising on your thigh will take weeks to fade. You have no business standing on that leg, let alone carrying silver trays across a banquet hall."
"I have to work, Dr. Harris," I whispered, pulling the oversized wool cuffs down over my knuckles. "My sister Mia... she just moved in with me on Tuesday. She’s only nineteen. Our rent is eight hundred dollars, due on Monday morning. If Vanessa fires me—"
"Miss Bellini will not fire you, child," Mrs. Carter interrupted firmly from the doorway.
The older woman stepped into the warm glow of the bedside lamp, holding a steaming mug of chamomile tea and honey. Her kind, weathered face was lined with deep, protective fury.
"I have served the Moretti family for thirty-four years," Mrs. Carter said, pressing the hot mug into my trembling hands. "I served Luca’s mother when she was carrying him. In all those years, I have never seen a woman bring such poison across our threshold as Vanessa Bellini. Treating Margaret Sullivan like dirt in the mud... pushing you down stone steps... it’s monstrous."
The heavy oak doors of the suite clicked open without a knock.
Luca Moretti stepped across the threshold.
The room fell instantly silent.
He had shed his tuxedo jacket and his tie. He wore only his crisp white dress shirt with the collar unbuttoned and the sleeves rolled neatly up to his elbows, exposing the dark, intricate Sicilian ink winding across his forearms. His shoes were damp from the rain, his dark hair disheveled, but the presence he commanded was suffocating.
Behind him stood Daniel, holding a pair of clean, low-heeled black leather shoes that looked brand-new.
Luca stopped at the foot of the bed. His gray eyes swept over me—taking in the oversized sweater, the pale exhaustion in my face, and the thick white bandage covering my knee.
"How is she, Doctor?" Luca asked.
"Eight stitches, Mr. Moretti," Dr. Harris replied, standing straight. "She shouldn't be walking."
Luca looked down at my face. The cold, impenetrable stone of his expression cracked, just for an instant, replaced by an intensity so fierce it made my breath hitch.
"Sophie," he said softly.
"Yes, Mr. Moretti?"
He walked around the bed until he was standing two feet from where I sat. He didn't tower over me; instead, he knelt down on one knee onto the Persian rug, bringing his eyes level with mine.
The sight of the most feared mafia boss in Chicago kneeling on the floor before an injured housemaid made the room feel completely airless.
"Did she touch you anywhere else?" Luca asked, his voice a low, gravelly rumble.
"No, sir," I whispered, my voice trembling despite my best efforts to keep it steady. "Just... my shoulder when she grabbed Margaret’s purse, and then I slipped on the wet moss near the fountain."
Luca reached out. His fingers, warm and rough with old scars, gently brushed a damp strand of hair behind my ear. His touch was electric, shockingly tender against my skin, sending a jolt of heat racing straight down my spine.
"You took an eight-inch laceration to keep a seventy-year-old woman from drowning in two feet of water," Luca murmured, his thumb lightly grazing the curve of my jawline. "And then you put on a clean apron and carried thirty champagne glasses across my floor because you were terrified of losing your paycheck."
"I... I needed to protect my sister, sir," I stammered, my heart thumping against my ribs. "Vanessa told me she’d have us blacklisted from every agency in the city."
Luca’s jaw set into iron.
May you like
He stood up, towering over the bed once more. He reached out his hand, offering his open palm to me.
"Nobody blacklists anyone under my protection, Sophie," Luca said, his voice ringing with absolute, terrifying certainty. "Put your shoes on. We have a toast to deliver."
