Chapter 2 - The Reckoning in the Dining Room
|
The silence inside the dining hall felt like ice cracking beneath winter boots.
Not a single foot shifted among the seven kitchen maids standing along the sideboard.
Alessandro Moretti did not raise his voice, yet the chill in his tone made the crystal drops on the chandelier seem to shiver.
His dark eyes swept slowly from the trembling head housekeeper down to the porcelain shards scattered across the marble floor.
“I asked a simple question,” Alessandro said, his hands resting easily in the pockets of his tailored charcoal coat.
“Who laid a hand on this girl while my father was sitting at this table?”
Beatrice swallowed hard, her manicured fingers twisting into the pleats of her black uniform skirt.
“Mr. Moretti, please understand that protocol was being violated,” Beatrice whispered, her voice wavering like a dying flame.
“This girl is only a junior maid on probationary status, and she had no authorization to enter the formal dining room with kitchen rations.”
“Protocol?” Alessandro repeated, taking a slow, measured step forward.
The sound of his polished leather shoes striking the stone echoed like hammer blows against an anvil.
“My father built this estate forty years before you learned how to iron a linen napkin, Beatrice.”
“If my father chooses to eat his meal on the grand table, in the rose garden, or on the front steps, he is the master of every square inch of this soil.”
Giovanni let out a short, rough breath from his armchair, leaning both hands heavily upon the silver crook of his walking stick.
“She didn't just knock the tray down, son,” the old man said, his gravelly voice cutting through the room.
“She shoved the girl hard enough to bruise her bone against the corner of the plinth.”
“And she told me I was useless.”
Alessandro stopped three inches from Beatrice, towering over her with the terrifying calm of an executioner reviewing a warrant.
“Did you call Giovanni Moretti useless in his own home?” Alessandro asked softly.
Beatrice’s face lost whatever color remained, turning the sickly shade of bleached parchment.
“I did not know who he was, sir!” she cried out desperately, tears of pure terror finally breaking past her mascara.
“He arrived in wet clothes without an escort, and he was carrying his belongings in a paper grocery sack!”
Alessandro tilted his head slightly, his expression hardening into pure granite.
“So if an old man is cold, hungry, and dressed in worn wool, your instinct is to kick him back into the rain?”
“And when a twenty-year-old girl shows him mercy, your instinct is to strike her to the ground?”
Meline tried to step backward, her knees throbbing beneath the fabric of her stained apron.
“Mr. Moretti, it's alright,” Meline whispered, not wanting blood spilled over a bowl of vegetable broth.
“The soup just spilled, that's all.”
Alessandro turned his head toward her, and the terrifying darkness in his eyes softened with an unfamiliar warmth.
“It is not alright, Miss Pierce,” Alessandro said gently, looking down at the red welts forming around her wrist.
He looked back at the security captain standing motionless by the double entrance doors.
“Frank,” Alessandro commanded without taking his eyes off Beatrice.
“Strip Beatrice of her keys, escort her to her quarters, and give her precisely fifteen minutes to pack her personal bags.”
“If she is still on the grounds of this property when the clock strikes one, have her removed to the county line.”
Beatrice dropped to her knees, sobbing against the polished stone, but neither man offered her a glance.
Frank moved forward with two guards, lifting the former housekeeper by her elbows and marching her into the foyer.
Alessandro turned back to the trembling kitchen staff who stood pinned against the wall.
“Clean this floor,” he ordered them quietly.
“And bring a fresh tureen of roasted beef soup, warm bread, and sweet butter directly to this table.”
May you like
Then he extended his arm toward Meline.
“You will sit down, Miss Pierce.”
