Chapter 5 - The Bruise and the Boss
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The south suite was larger than the entire ground floor of the duplex Meline had shared with her mother and late grandfather.
A king-sized bed with cream silk sheets sat opposite a carved limestone fireplace where dry birch logs were already crackling with amber flame.
Floor-to-ceiling windows looked out over the manicured rose terraces, now glistening under the cold autumn moonlight.
Meline sat on the edge of an upholstered chaise lounge, feeling completely out of place in her simple cotton work dress.
Her modest cardboard box of belongings—three paperback novels, an old silver locket, and her grandfather’s pocket watch—sat neatly on the mahogany dresser.
A soft, rhythmic knock sounded at the heavy walnut door, startling her from her thoughts.
“Come in,” she called out, smoothing her skirts over her knees.
The door swung open, and Alessandro Moretti stepped into the room, having removed his tie and rolled his white cuffs to his forearms.
He held a small porcelain jar of herbal salve and a glass of warm spiced cider on a silver coaster.
Meline scrambled to her feet, wincing as her injured knee buckled under her weight.
“Sit down, Meline,” Alessandro commanded softly, crossing the room in three long, elegant strides.
He placed a large, firm hand on her shoulder, gently pressing her back down onto the cushioned chaise before she could fall.
“You don't need to stand up every time I walk into a room,” he said, pulling an ottoman close to her feet and sitting down.
Meline felt her breath hitch in her chest at the sheer proximity of the man.
He smelled of sandalwood, cedar smoke, and rain-washed leather, an intoxicating scent that made her pulse flutter wildly.
Without waiting for her permission, Alessandro reached down, took her right ankle in his warm hand, and lifted her leg onto the ottoman.
“Mr. Moretti, please!” she protested, her face burning as she tried to pull her skirt down over her calves.
“I am more than capable of putting ice on my own leg!”
Alessandro looked up at her through thick dark lashes, his jaw set in a line of quiet, stubborn authority.
“Your knee is swollen to the size of an orange because my head housekeeper assaulted you while you were protecting my father,” he said.
“The least I can do is make sure the bone isn't cracked.”
He gently gathered the hem of her cotton dress, raising it just past her knee to reveal the purple-black contusion blooming across the pale skin.
His eyes narrowed, a dark, dangerous spark flashing across his irises as he examined the damage.
“Beatrice was lucky I let her walk off this estate on her own two feet,” he murmured, his thumb lightly circling the edge of the swelling.
He unscrewed the porcelain jar, scooped a generous dollop of arnica balm onto his fingers, and began working it into her bruised skin.
His touch was remarkably gentle for a man whose hands had commanded syndicates and broken rivals.
Meline let out a shaky breath, the soothing coolness of the ointment easing the sharp, throbbing ache in her joint.
“Why are you being so kind to me?” she whispered, unable to hold back the question any longer.
Alessandro paused his hands for a fraction of a second before continuing his rhythmic, careful massage.
“My mother died when I was twenty-two,” Alessandro said, his deep voice dropping into an intimate register that made the room feel small.
“Before she passed, she told me that a man’s true power is not measured by the number of men who fear him in the dark.”
“It is measured by how his household treats the people who cannot fight back.”
He wiped his hands on a clean cloth, leaned back, and looked directly into her hazel eyes.
“I have spent seven years watching people bow, flatter, and smile at me because they want my shipping docks or my money.”
“You didn't know who Giovanni was.”
“You thought he was a destitute tramp who couldn't even afford to tip you a dime.”
“Yet you risked your livelihood, your room, and your safety just to ensure he didn't freeze outside my window.”
He reached out, his thumb gently catching a stray lock of dark brown hair that had fallen across her cheek, tucking it behind her ear.
“That kind of grace cannot be bought with millions of dollars, Meline.”
Meline’s heart hammered against her ribs, her lips parting as she looked into the intense, unyielding gaze of Chicago's most dangerous son.
Before either of them could speak another word, the heavy double doors down the corridor slammed open with violent force.
A woman’s high-pitched, furious voice echoed through the quiet halls, demanding an immediate audience with the master of the house.
Alessandro sighed, his jaw hardening back into the cold mask of the mafia don as he stood up from the ottoman.
May you like
“It seems my evening has been interrupted,” he said quietly, walking toward the door.
“Rest your leg, Meline. We are not finished talking.”
