Chapter 5 - The One O’Clock Summoning That Terrified the Entire Estate
By twelve-fifty-eight, Clara was sitting on the edge of a stiff velvet chair outside Lorenzo Duca’s private study, her heart beating a frantic rhythm against her ribs.
Mia was fast asleep on a nearby sofa, curled up around Mr. Buttons, exhausted by her morning adventures in the grand estate.
The heavy mahogany double doors before Clara looked like the gates of a medieval fortress.
She had spent the last two hours expecting a security team to escort her off the property with a black bag over her head. Instead, Mrs. Gable—a terrifyingly stern housekeeper who had worked for the Duca family for thirty years—had served Mia a mountain of fluffy pancakes with fresh fruit, smiling softly while doing so as if feeding stray children was standard protocol in a syndicate stronghold.
One o'clock, the grandfather clock in the foyer chimed.
Before the final chime could fade into silence, the right mahogany door swung open.
Viktor stood in the doorway, his stone-cold face devoid of any expression.
“Miss Bennett,” Viktor said. “Mr. Duca will see you now.”
Clara stood up, smoothing down her tunic with trembling hands, whispering a silent prayer, and walked through the doors into the lion’s den.
The study was massive, dominated by a wall of floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, a roaring fireplace, and a massive mahogany desk facing the tall windows that overlooked the snow-dusted lawns of Lake Forest.
Lorenzo Duca sat behind the desk, reading a thin manila folder.
He didn't look up immediately.
“Sit down, Clara,” he said, his voice flat.
Clara crossed the Persian rug and sat gingerly on the edge of the leather armchair opposite his desk.
“Mr. Duca... look, whatever you decide to do, please understand that Mia didn't mean any harm—she’s three years old, she doesn't understand—and I take full responsibility for—"
“Quiet, Clara,” Lorenzo interrupted, closing the manila folder with a soft snap.
He finally raised his dark eyes, fixing them on her with an intensity that made her swallow hard.
“Do you know what this is?” he asked, tapping the folder with his index finger.
“N-no, sir.”
“It is a background check on you,” Lorenzo said calmly. “Clara Bennett. Born in Chicago. Graduated top of her class in high school, attended two years of community college before her father fell ill and medical bills forced her to drop out. Husband walked out two years before Mia was born. Current address: 412 West Madison, apartment 3B. Rent: eight hundred and fifty dollars a month. Current utility debt: four hundred and twenty dollars. Outstanding grocery credit at the corner bodega: one hundred and fifty dollars.”
Clara felt the blood drain entirely from her face.
Mortiliation and sheer terror locked her throat. He knew everything. He knew how poor she was, how broken her life was, how close she was to complete and utter ruin.
“Please,” she whispered, a tear finally escaping and tracking down her cheek. “Please don't use that against us. I’ll work for free. I’ll do anything.”
Lorenzo leaned back in his leather chair, steepling his fingers beneath his chin.
He studied her for a long time—not with cruelty, but with the cold, analytical detachment of a chess player surveying the board.
“I do not employ people for free, Clara,” he said slowly. “That is slave labor, and it is bad for business.”
Clara stared at him, bewildered.
“Then... why are you telling me this?”
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“Because,” Lorenzo said, standing up from his desk and walking slowly toward the window, looking out over the frozen estate grounds. “A desperate mother is a liability in my house. A mother who cannot afford rent, who worries about heat, who has to smuggle her child into a fortress because she cannot afford a babysitter... that woman makes mistakes. And mistakes get people killed in my world.”
He turned around, leaning against the windowsill, his broad shoulders silhouetted against the gray winter light.
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