Chapter 3 - Blood and Ice
Carrying me through the grand corridors of the Moretti mansion, Luca moved with swift, silent purpose.
I was burning with humiliation. Servants were meant to be invisible; we were background decoration in Luca’s world of marble, oil paintings, and power. Yet here I was, tucked against his chest, my dirtied apron pressed to his hand-tailored Italian shirt. I could feel the steady, heavy beat of his heart against my cheek.
“Put me down, please,” I pleaded softly, clutching my side. “The other staff… they’ll see.”
“Let them see,” he said without breaking stride. “Let anyone who has a problem with it pack their bags and join Isabella at the front gate.”
He didn't take me toward the servants’ quarters on the third floor. Instead, he kicked open the door to his private library on the ground floor and carried me inside. The room smelled of old leather books, pipe tobacco, and bourbon. He laid me down gently on a deep, cognac-leather sofa, placing a velvet pillow beneath my head.
Every breath felt like someone was dragging broken glass across my lungs.
“Stay still,” Luca ordered softly. He turned toward the antique desk in the corner, picked up his private landline, and dialed three digits.
“Dr. Evans,” Luca said the moment the call connected. “Come to the estate immediately. Private entrance. Bring an ultrasound kit and local analgesics.”
A brief pause.
“No, not Sofia. Emma. Rib contusion. Possibly fractured. Ten minutes, Marcus, or I’ll find another physician for your clinic.”
He hung up without waiting for a reply.
I tried to sit up, but the sharp pain pinned me down instantly. A low groan escaped my lips.
“I told you not to move,” Luca said, walking back over and kneeling beside the sofa.
Being this close to him outside of serving dinner was disorienting. Up close, I could see the faint silver threads woven through his thick dark hair, the slight crook in his nose from an old break, and the shadow of stubble along his sharp jawline. He was dangerous, a man who commanded an underworld empire hidden beneath corporate shipping enterprises, yet right now, his hands were remarkably gentle as he reached for the hem of my blouse.
“I need to see the swelling,” he murmured, his dark eyes meeting mine. “May I?”
The fact that he asked for permission stunned me. Isabella had treated me like a stray dog she could kick aside. Luca, who had the power to crush anyone in this city, waited for my nod.
I swallowed hard and nodded.
Carefully, his calloused fingers untied my apron and lifted the cotton hem of my white uniform blouse. Cold air hit my skin, followed immediately by his sharp intake of breath.
My entire left side, from just below my bra line to the top of my hip, was already blooming into a violent, sickening shade of purplish-black. The imprint of the sharp shelf corner was unmistakable—a jagged, swollen ridge of bruised flesh.
A muscle ticked in Luca’s jaw. His dark eyes darkened further, turning into pitch-black voids of suppressed fury.
“She did this with one shove?” he asked, his voice deceptively quiet.
“I… I didn't see the shelf behind me,” I whispered, looking away from his gaze. “I lost my balance.”
“She shoved you,” he corrected flatly. “She knew the edge was there.”
He reached out, his thumb lightly grazing the unblemished skin just above the dark bruise. His touch was unexpectedly warm, sending a strange, electric shiver through my spine that had nothing to do with the pain.
“Why didn't you come to me immediately, Emma?”
“Because she’s your fiancée,” I answered honestly, the tears I had been fighting finally stinging my eyes. “Because her father is powerful, and I’m nobody. If I accused her, why would you believe a maid over the woman you’re going to marry?”
Luca went completely still. His hand remained resting near my ribs, heavy and grounding.
“You are not a nobody,” he said, every word deliberate and heavy. “You took a bullet of cruelty meant to push you away from my daughter. Sofia hasn't laughed since her mother died two years ago. Not until you arrived.”
My heart hammered against my ribs, making the physical pain flare up again, but I barely registered it.
Before I could reply, the heavy double doors of the library swung open. Dr. Marcus Evans, a gray-haired man carrying a medical case, hurried into the room, followed closely by Mrs. Gable.
“Luca,” Dr. Evans breathed, setting his bag on the coffee table. “What happened?”
“Examine her,” Luca commanded, rising smoothly to his feet and stepping aside, though his eyes never left me. “Tell me she doesn't have a punctured lung.”
The next twenty minutes were a blur of cold antiseptic, the hum of a portable ultrasound wand, and sharp prods that made me clench my fists into the sofa cushions. Luca didn't leave the room. He stood by the roaring marble fireplace, arms crossed over his broad chest, watching the doctor’s every movement like a hawk guarding its nest.
“Two cracked ribs,” Dr. Evans finally announced, wiping the gel from my side. “Seventh and eighth. Fortunately, no internal bleeding, and the lung wall is intact. But she needs complete bed rest for at least two weeks. Heavy compression, pain management, and zero lifting.”
“She’ll have it,” Luca said instantly.
“I have my duties—” I started to say, trying to push myself up.
“Your only duty for the next month is breathing,” Luca interrupted without looking back. “Mrs. Gable, prepare the guest suite on the second floor.”
Mrs. Gable blinked in astonishment. “The east wing, sir? The master guest suite?”
“Did I stutter?” Luca’s voice held that terrifying edge again.
“No, Mr. Moretti. Right away.” The housekeeper hurried out.
Dr. Evans handed me a small bottle of pills and a cup of water, casting a curious, guarded glance between Luca and me. After giving Luca brief instructions regarding the wrapping, the doctor excused himself, clearly recognizing the dangerous tension crackling in the room.
Once the library doors clicked shut again, Luca walked back over. He held a glass of water and a white pill.
“Take it,” he said.
I swallowed the pill obediently, my fingers brushing his as I returned the glass.
“Mr. Moretti… about Miss Isabella,” I began cautiously. “Her father won't take this lightly. The Santoros don't accept public insults.”
Luca smirked—a cold, ruthless curve of his lips that sent a chill down my spine.
May you like
“Marcus Santoro thinks he built this city,” Luca said, stepping closer until his shadow enveloped the couch. “He forgot who poured the concrete. Let him come. But from this night forward, Emma, you are under my personal protection. Anyone who touches you answers directly to me.”
***
