Chapter 2 - The Doctor’s Needle
The silence stretched like wire pulled so tight it could sever bone.
Every breath in the dining room felt borrowed. Beside me, the silver tray caught the cold chandelier light, reflecting Isabella’s rigid silhouette. Her jaw was set, the polite mask of a high-society heiress slipping at the seams.
Luca didn’t look at her. His gaze remained locked on me, his fingers still resting lightly near the pulse fluttering in my wrist.
“Emma,” he said again. The syllable was low, commanding, stripped of the indifference he usually showed his household staff. “I’m waiting.”
My heart hammered against my ribs. In the hierarchy of the Moretti estate, truth was a luxury only the master could afford. If I accused Isabella of lunging at me, of deliberately breaking that crystal glass over my flesh, what would happen?
She was Victor Romano’s only daughter. She was worth hundreds of millions in maritime shipping contracts. I was a maid whose brother’s leukemia treatments depended entirely on the paycheck Luca’s estate manager signed every other Friday. If Isabella was backed into a corner, she would not fall alone; she would ensure I was discarded onto the street without a reference, blacklisted from every wealthy zip code in the state.
“It was an accident, sir,” I said, my voice steady despite the tremor in my legs. “I lost my grip on the crystal while clearing the pantry counter. Miss Romano happened to be nearby. It was my own carelessness.”
Isabella let out an audible sigh of vindication, smoothing down the waist of her scarlet dress. “You see? As I told you, Luca. She’s overwhelmed. If she can’t handle high-end stemware, she certainly shouldn’t be assigned to the main floor.”
Luca didn’t smile. He didn’t nod.
Instead, he lifted my arm just an inch higher. With his thumb, he traced the dark, purple-black crescent bruising around my wrist. The pressure was tender, but his eyes were obsidian.
“Carelessness doesn’t leave five distinct finger marks on the inside of a forearm,” he murmured.
Isabella stiffened. Her champagne glass tilted, nearly spilling onto the Persian rug. “Luca, you can’t possibly be implying—”
“Jennings,” Luca called without turning around.
From the arched doorway, the head butler stepped forward instantly, his head bowed. “Yes, Mr. Moretti?”
“Dinner is postponed by an hour,” Luca instructed, his voice slicing through the room with absolute authority. “Clear the staff out of the east wing. Call Dr. Evans. Have him wait in my private study with a suture kit and a bottle of surgical antiseptic.”
Jennings blinked, clearly taken aback. “Your private study, sir? For… a staff injury?”
“Did I stutter, Jennings?”
“No, Mr. Moretti. At once.” The butler retreated with hurried steps, his polished shoes clicking rapidly down the marble corridor.
Luca finally released my wrist. He pulled a crisp, folded silk handkerchief from his breast pocket and pressed it firmly against my bleeding palm. The fabric soaked through with red within seconds, but the warmth of his hand over mine anchored me in a way that terrified me even more than the cut.
“Upstairs,” he commanded quietly, looking directly into my eyes.
“Mr. Moretti, please,” I whispered, conscious of Isabella’s murderous glare burning into my temple. “I can go to urgent care on my own. Housekeeping has an emergency kit in the basement.”
“You will go to my study,” he repeated, leaving no room for negotiation. “Now.”
He turned on his heel and walked toward the grand staircase, his broad shoulders squared beneath the immaculate tailoring of his suit. I had no choice. I tucked the handkerchief into my palm, curtsied slightly out of sheer habit, and moved to follow.
As I passed Isabella, her perfume hit me—tuberose, expensive and suffocating.
She leaned in, her voice a poisonous hiss meant for my ears alone. “Do you think you’re clever, Emma? Do you think he looks at you and sees a woman?” She gave a cruel, breathless chuckle. “You’re a stray dog he’s using to test my patience. Enjoy the scraps while you can. By morning, you’ll be out on the curb.”
I kept my chin level, refused to meet her eyes, and walked on.
The fourth floor of the Moretti mansion was strictly forbidden to junior staff. It housed Luca’s private quarters, his library, and his security monitoring center. The carpets here were thicker, absorbing every footfall until the air felt heavy and church-like.
When I stepped into the study, Dr. Evans was already opening his black leather medical bag on a dark mahogany side table. Luca stood by the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the rain-lashed gardens, a glass of amber scotch untouched in his hand.
“Sit,” Luca said without turning around.
I sat on the edge of a tufted leather armchair. Dr. Evans, an older man with silvering temples and sharp, professional eyes, inspected my hand under the desk lamp.
“Deep laceration across the thenar eminence,” the doctor muttered, shaking his head. “You severed small capillaries, young lady. A fraction of an inch deeper and you’d have compromised the tendon. This needs at least seven stitches.”
I clenched my jaw. “Will I be able to work tomorrow?”
Dr. Evans chuckled dryly. “Not with silver platters, you won't.”
He swabbed the wound with iodine. The sting hit like liquid fire, shooting straight up my arm. I gasped, digging my fingernails into my jeans to keep from pulling away.
Suddenly, a heavy presence filled the space beside me. Luca had moved from the window. He stood directly over the chair, reaching down to place his bare palm over my uninjured left hand.
“Squeeze,” he ordered softly.
I looked up, stunned. His eyes held an intensity that made the pain in my hand fade into background noise. He was the master of this estate—a ruthless billionaire whose family controlled shipping routes from New York to Genoa—yet he was offering me his hand like an equal.
The needle pierced my skin. The thread pulled tight.
I couldn't help it; my fingers clamped down on Luca’s hand with desperate strength. He didn't flinch. He didn't pull away. He simply absorbed the pressure, his thumb lightly stroking the back of my knuckles in a rhythmic, grounding motion.
“Why didn’t you blame her?” Luca asked quietly while the doctor tied off the third knot.
“Sir?”
“In the dining room. You had the chance to destroy her credibility. You chose to lie for her.”
“I didn’t lie for Miss Romano,” I breathed, wincing as the fourth suture pulled through. “I lied for myself. Men like you have battles. People like me are just the grass that gets trampled under your feet.”
Luca’s jaw ticked. His eyes darkened, a storm brewing behind his irises.
“You’re not grass, Emma,” he said, his voice dropping into a register that sent shivers tracing down my spine. “And in this house, nobody bleeds without my permission.”
When Dr. Evans finished wrapping the wound in sterile white gauze, he packed his instruments and bowed politely. “Keep it dry for forty-eight hours, Mr. Moretti. I will check on her on Thursday.”
“Thank you, Arthur. Jennings will see you out.”
The heavy mahogany door clicked shut behind the physician, leaving us alone in the cavernous room. The rain beat a relentless tempo against the glass.
I stood up, desperate to put distance between us. “Thank you for the medical care, Mr. Moretti. I should return to the staff quarters.”
“You won’t be returning to the staff quarters tonight,” Luca said, crossing his arms.
My stomach dropped. “Sir?”
May you like
“Jennings has already packed your belongings. You’ve been reassigned.” He stepped closer, towering over me until his shadow enveloped the chair. “Starting tonight, you are my private assistant on the fourth floor. You answer only to me. You don’t touch a cleaning rag. And if Isabella Romano comes within ten feet of you, you won't need to lie. Because I’ll already be there.”
***
