Chapter 4 - Whispers in the Hallway
The master guest suite in the east wing was larger than the entire apartment I had grown up in.
It featured floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the manicured grounds of the estate, a private marble fireplace, and a bed draped in Egyptian cotton sheets that felt like clouds against my bruised ribs. For two days, I was treated not like a maid, but like an invalid princess. Trays of hot broth, fresh fruit, and roasted chicken were delivered by junior maids who looked at me with wide, bewildered eyes.
Word had spread through the Moretti staff like wildfire.
*Luca threw out Isabella Santoro.*
*The wedding is off.*
*The maid is sleeping in the family wing.*
By the third morning, the painkillers had dulled the ache to a manageable throb. The stillness of the room was driving me insane. I wasn't built for idleness; my whole life had been defined by work, survival, and movement.
Wearing a soft, oversized gray sweater Mrs. Gable had brought me and a pair of dark leggings, I cautiously stepped out into the carpeted hallway. The house was unnaturally quiet. Downstairs, the grandfather clock struck ten.
As I neared the grand staircase, hushed, furious voices drifted up from the foyer below.
“—you can’t just terminate the contract, Luca! It’s suicide!”
I froze, tucking myself behind the wide oak balustrade near the top landing.
Down in the foyer, Luca stood near the towering double doors, wearing a dark charcoal suit, his hands casually shoved into his pockets. Facing him were two men. One was an older man with slicked-back silver hair and an expensive camel-hair coat—Marcus Santoro. Beside him stood his son, Isabella’s older brother, Lorenzo, whose face was flushed with fury.
Isabella was not with them, but her presence hung heavy in the room.
“I can do whatever I please with my supply chains, Marcus,” Luca replied, his voice entirely devoid of emotion. “The Santoro docks were a convenience, not a necessity.”
“A convenience?” Lorenzo barked, taking an aggressive step toward Luca. “You disgraced my sister in front of half the city’s elite! You threw her out into the rain like a stray dog because of some fabricated lie from a common servant girl!”
Luca didn't flinch. He didn't even take his hands out of his pockets. But the temperature in the foyer seemed to plunge ten degrees.
“Lorenzo,” Luca said, and the soft menace in his tone made the younger Santoro halt mid-stride. “If you raise your voice in my home again, you won't walk out of that front door on your own two feet.”
Marcus Santoro raised an arm, checking his hot-headed son. The older mob boss was calmer, but his eyes held a toxic, calculated hatred.
“You’re breaking a sacred alliance, Moretti,” Marcus said, his voice gravelly. “The families agreed. A marriage solidifies the northern and southern districts. You break this engagement, and you open up territory disputes that haven't bled since our fathers’ time.”
“Then prepare your soldiers,” Luca replied coldly. “Because Isabella will never set foot across my threshold again.”
“Over a maid?” Marcus sneered, shaking his head in disgust. “A little girl from the foster system with no family and no backing? What did she do, Luca? Did she warm your bed while my daughter was planning your charity gala?”
Up on the landing, my breath caught in my throat. My fingernails dug into the polished wood of the railing.
Below, Luca moved.
It happened so fast it was almost a blur. One second he was standing casually; the next, he had crossed the five feet between them and seized Marcus Santoro by the lapels of his camel-hair coat, slamming the older man hard against the heavy mahogany front door.
Lorenzo reached inside his jacket for a weapon, but two of Luca’s bodyguards materialized from the shadows of the side parlor, their pistols drawn and leveled at Lorenzo’s forehead before he could even clear leather.
“Touch that iron and you die right here,” one of the guards muttered.
Luca leaned in until his nose was an inch from Marcus Santoro’s face.
“Speak about Emma like that again,” Luca whispered, every syllable ringing with deadly intent, “and I will personally drag you down to your own docks and throw you into the lake with chains around your ankles. Isabella laid hands on my staff, she lied to me, and she frightened my daughter. That was her first strike. Your insolence right now is your family’s second. Do you want to see what the third strike looks like, Marcus?”
Marcus Santoro’s face turned gray. He swallowed hard, the arrogance melting under the sheer, unbridled brutality in Luca Moretti’s eyes.
“We’re leaving,” Marcus choked out.
Luca let go, smoothing the older man’s lapels with mocking precision. “A wise choice.”
The guards lowered their weapons just enough to let the two Santoro men back away toward the entrance. Lorenzo glared at Luca, his eyes wild with promised vengeance.
“This isn't over, Moretti,” Lorenzo spat, wrenching the heavy door open. “You think you’re untouchable. But everybody bleeds. Even your little orphan maid.”
The door slammed shut behind them, echoing through the marble foyer like a gunshot.
Luca stood there for a long moment, adjusting the cuffs of his suit jacket. His breathing was slow, controlled, but the tension radiating off his wide shoulders was palpable.
Then, without turning around, he spoke into the quiet room.
“You should be resting, Emma.”
My heart skipped a beat. Slowly, I stepped out from the shadows of the balcony and walked toward the top of the stairs.
“How did you know I was there?” I asked softly.
Luca turned around and looked up at me. The icy fury that had consumed his features seconds ago vanished, replaced by an expression of intense, guarded concern.
May you like
“I always know where you are,” he said.
***
