Chapter 4 - The Third-Floor Sanctuary
The east wing suite was larger than the entire ground floor of my mother’s home in Bridgeport.
The floors were covered in pale gray silk rugs that felt like clouds beneath my stocking feet. A massive four-poster bed draped in Egyptian cotton occupied the center of the bedroom, and through the tall French doors, a private terrace overlooked the manicured gardens and the distant, dark horizon of Lake Michigan.
A private nurse sent by Luca had arrived at midnight to dress my shoulder properly.
She had used a soothing antiseptic cream that numbed the burning pain instantly, wrapping the scrape in breathable medical gauze that didn't pull when I moved. She had left two pain pills on the nightstand along with a glass of lemon water.
Yet, despite the exhaustion dragging at my bones, I couldn't sleep.
I stood by the window, wearing an oversized silk pajama set that had been delivered by one of the maids. Outside, in the rain-swept driveway below, I watched the final act of Vanessa Bellini’s downfall.
Four security guards were methodically loading designer suitcases, fur coats, and hatboxes into the trunk of a sleek black town car. Vanessa was standing beside the driver's side, wrapped in a trench coat, gesturing wildly, screaming at the men. But none of them responded. They moved with the cold, emotionless efficiency of machines.
When the trunk slammed shut, Daniel handed Vanessa an envelope—presumably her severance from the Moretti empire—and opened the passenger door. She hesitated, looking up toward the massive mansion, her eyes searching the darkened windows. For a second, I thought she looked straight at my third-floor room. Her face was twisted with pure hatred, an ugly, bitter promise of revenge carved into her features.
Then she got in, and the car sped out through the iron gates, disappearing into the Chicago night.
A soft knock at my bedroom door startled me from my thoughts.
I pulled the silk robe tighter around my waist and crossed the room, unlocking the heavy brass latch.
Luca stood in the hallway.
He had showered and changed out of his suit. He wore a simple charcoal-gray Henley shirt with the sleeves pushed up his forearms, revealing dark, intricate geometric tattoos that wound from his wrists past his elbows. His dark hair was still damp, falling slightly over his forehead, making him look younger, less like an untouchable monarch and more like a man who carried the world on his shoulders.
In his right hand, he held a porcelain mug. In his left, a thick leather-bound folder.
"Are you awake?" he asked quietly.
"I... yes, Mr. Moretti. I couldn't sleep."
"Neither could I." He gestured toward the small sitting area inside the room. "May I?"
"Of course."
I backed away, allowing him to enter. The room suddenly felt ten degrees warmer, the air thick with his presence. He walked over to the low coffee table between two velvet armchairs and set down the mug. A ribbon of steam rose from it, carrying the scent of hot milk, honey, and vanilla.
"Mrs. Carter said you used to drink this when your shifts ran late," Luca said, taking a seat in one of the armchairs.
I sat down across from him, wrapping my fingers around the warm porcelain. The simple, thoughtful gesture hit me harder than any of the luxury surrounding us. In eleven months of working here, I had learned every habit, every preference, every coffee temperature of the Moretti family. No one had ever asked what I drank.
"Thank you, sir," I whispered.
"Stop calling me 'sir,' Emma. It's Luca."
I swallowed, looking down at the amber honey swirling in the milk. "That doesn't feel appropriate. I'm on your payroll."
"Are you?" He leaned back, resting his elbows on the arms of the chair, steepling his fingers. "Because as of midnight, I terminated your contract with the domestic agency."
Panic spiked through my chest, sharp and cold. The mug rattled slightly against my saucer. "What? Luca, please... my mother's hospital bills. You promised—"
"Let me finish," he said gently, cutting off my spiral before it could take root.
He slid the leather-bound folder across the table toward me.
"Open it."
With trembling fingers, I opened the folder. Inside was a thick stack of legal documents printed on heavy parchment.
At the top of the first page, embossed in gold lettering, was the header of the Chicago Memorial Healthcare System. Below it was my mother’s name, followed by an account balance. Every single itemized line—her chemotherapy sessions, her surgery, her three-week stay in the ICU—had a bold red stamp over it: PAID IN FULL - BALANCE ZERO.
I stared at the numbers, unable to comprehend what I was seeing. "This... this is over two hundred thousand dollars."
"Turn the page," Luca murmured.
I turned it.
The next document was an employment contract. But it wasn't for housekeeping. It was an executive appointment for the Moretti Foundation—a charitable trust established in his mother's name that funded animal rescue shelters and low-income medical clinics across Illinois.
The position was Director of Estate Operations.
The salary listed at the bottom had five zeroes.
"I can't accept this," I breathed, my vision blurring with tears. "Luca, I cleaned your floors. I served your bread. I'm not qualified to run a foundation."
"You had the courage to stand between a fourteen-year-old dog and two grown men with a cage," Luca said, his voice dropping into a low, fierce register. "You took a beating to protect a piece of my dead mother. You walked into a dining room full of the most dangerous people in this city with your back bleeding, and you still served my table because you needed to take care of your own mother."
He leaned forward, his gray eyes pinning me to the chair, radiating a conviction so absolute it took my breath away.
"You have more spine, more loyalty, and more honor than every person who sat at that dinner table tonight," he said. "The people I deal with every day are snakes, Emma. They smile, they shake my hand, and they plot how to bleed me dry the moment my back is turned. Vanessa was just the latest one. I don't need credentials. I need someone I can trust with my life."
"And you trust me?" I asked, my voice barely audible over the hum of the rain against the glass.
"I trusted you with Bruno," he said simply. "That's more than I've ever trusted anyone else in this city."
A heavy, electric silence settled over the room. His gaze dropped to my lips for a fraction of a second before returning to my eyes, and a sudden, thrilling heat bloomed deep in my stomach. For eleven months, I had forced myself to look at the floor whenever he walked by, terrified of what would happen if he ever caught me looking at him the way I secretly wanted to.
Now, he was looking at me as if I were the only person in the universe.
Before either of us could say another word, a soft scratching sound came from the hallway outside.
Luca turned his head. "Come in, buddy."
The heavy oak door nudged open, and Bruno padded slowly into the room. His stiff joints moved gingerly, but his tail was wagging in slow, steady sweeps. He walked past Luca, straight to my chair, and rested his heavy golden head right on my knee, looking up at me with soulful, grateful eyes.
A small, breathless laugh escaped my lips as I buried my fingers in his soft ears.
Luca watched us, the hard lines of his face softening into a genuine, breathtaking smile.
"It seems the chairman has cast his vote," Luca said softly. "The job is yours, Emma. If you'll have it."
May you like
I looked from the old dog up to the man who ruled Chicago.
"I'll take it," I whispered.
