Chapter 4 - The Encounter Between the Maid and the Marble Prince
Clara froze.
She looked at her daughter, then at the four armed enforcers standing rigidly in the background, and finally, slowly, raised her eyes to meet Lorenzo Duca’s terrifying gaze.
The air in the hallway turned to ice.
“Mr. Duca,” Clara whispered, her knees trembling so badly she had to lean against the elevator wall for support. “I... I am so, so sorry. It was an accident. The babysitter canceled, I had nowhere to leave her, I didn't want to lose my shift—please, don't fire me. Please, I’ll clean anything, I’ll work double shifts, just don't throw us out.”
She dropped to her knees, not out of submission, but because her legs simply refused to hold her up any longer.
Mia trotted over to her mother, tugging on the hem of her gray cleaning tunic.
“Don’t be sad, Mom,” Mia chirped brightly. “The grumpy man gave me a big hug. He has a drum in his chest.”
Clara closed her eyes in sheer agony.
A hug? she thought wildly. She asked a Chicago mob boss for a hug?! We’re going to wake up at the bottom of Lake Michigan.
Silence stretched across the hallway.
Lorenzo looked down at the kneeling woman.
He saw the fraying cuffs of her tunic. He saw the worn-out soles of her sneakers peeking out from beneath her cleaning cart. He saw the dark bruises of chronic exhaustion beneath her eyes—the exact same exhaustion he had seen in his mother’s face during the final, desperate years of his father’s reign.
Weakness, his father used to say.
Softness creates leverage.
“Get up, Miss Bennett,” Lorenzo said, his voice returning to its normal, icy authority.
Clara didn't move. She couldn't.
“I said, get up,” he repeated, stepping forward and extending a single, large hand downward.
Clara looked at his hand.
It was the hand that controlled the docks, the unions, and the underground economy of half the state.
Slowly, hesitantly, she placed her small, trembling hand in his.
With a single, effortless pull, Lorenzo lifted her to her feet, though he released her grip the instant she was upright.
“Your daughter is trespassing in a restricted zone,” Lorenzo said, his face completely expressionless.
“It won't happen again, Mr. Duca! I swear to God, I’ll lock her in the—I mean, I’ll find a reliable sitter, I’ll never bring her here again—just please, let us keep our jobs,” Clara pleaded, tears spilling over her eyelashes.
Lorenzo stared at her for a long, agonizing moment.
Then he looked down at Mia, who was currently trying to feed Mr. Buttons a piece of lint she had found in her pocket.
“Viktor,” Lorenzo said without turning around.
“Yes, Boss?”
“Have Mrs. Gable in the kitchen prepare a plate of pancakes and sliced strawberries for the child. And bring extra chocolate milk.”
Clara stopped crying.
She blinked twice, staring at the mafia boss as if he had just spoken in ancient Greek.
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“Sir?”
“You are dismissed from the ballroom, Clara,” Lorenzo said quietly, turning his back on them and walking toward his private study at the end of the hall. “Take your daughter to the staff dining room. Feed her. Then report to my office at one o'clock.”
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