Chapter 1 - The Weight of Crystal and Whispers
Pain radiates through my left heel like fractured glass ground deep into flesh.
Every single step across the polished Italian marble floor requires all the willpower I have left.
My hands are wrapped around a massive urn of wet white garden roses.
Cold condensation bleeds through the crystal, making the smooth surface slick against my palms.
Above me, three grand crystal chandeliers reflect light off twenty-four crystal wine glasses.
The dining room of the Moretti estate smells of aged Barolo, black truffles, and suffocating tension.
Around the thirty-foot mahogany table sit Chicago's most dangerous power players.
Men in custom tailored Brioni suits whisper into the bare shoulders of women draped in diamonds.
At the very head of the long table sits Luca Moretti.
He is thirty-nine years old, broad-shouldered, and entirely motionless.
His pitch-black eyes watch the room with the predatory calculation of an apex wolf.
Beside him sits Vanessa Bellini, his bride-to-be.
She wears an emerald-cut eight-carat diamond and an off-the-shoulder crimson silk gown.
Her lips are painted a flawless, blood-red gloss.
I drag my left foot forward another agonizing six inches.
My black maid's shoe is stretched taut around my swollen ankle.
Every nerve ending from my heel to my knee screams with a sharp throbbing heat.
"Look at her dragging her feet," Vanessa murmurs with a sweet, cutting giggle.
The guests sitting near her chuckle politely, turning their cold gazes toward me.
"You'd think we asked her to carry a grand piano instead of imported stems," she adds smoothly.
I keep my chin tucked toward my chest, staring at the delicate silver embroidery of my apron.
"I am very sorry, Miss Bellini," my voice shakes despite my desperate effort to steady it.
"Don't apologize to me, Natalie, just place the vase before you ruin the antique runner," she snaps.
My left ankle gives way under the sudden shift of forty pounds of glass and ice water.
A sharp gasp tears past my dry lips as my balance crumbles.
The heavy cut crystal tilts violently toward Luca Moretti's gold-rimmed plate.
Before the glass can shatter across his lap, a broad, calloused hand shoots outward.
His long fingers clamp around the neck of the vase with effortless, immovable force.
Water sloshes over the edge, wetting his starched white cuff.
"Let go," Luca commands softly.
His deep baritone cuts straight through the muffled hum of dinner conversation.
The entire dining hall falls into a dead, suffocating silence.
My fingers peel away from the freezing glass, trembling uncontrollably.
Luca does not look at the water on his sleeve, nor does he look at the dripping petals.
His piercing dark gaze travels slowly down the length of my black uniform.
It settles directly on my twisted left foot.
I try to shift my weight to my right hip, but the sudden movement sends a fresh wave of nausea through me.
I am twenty-nine years old, a widowed housekeeper surviving on sixteen dollars an hour.
If I lose this job tonight, my overdue rent notice turns into an eviction lock on my apartment door tomorrow.
And Vanessa Bellini made it abundantly clear two hours ago what would happen if I dared to open my mouth.
"Look at me, Natalie," Luca speaks again.
I force my eyes up from the herringbone wood floor.
His expression is an unreadable mask carved out of dark granite.
"Why are you unable to stand upright?" he asks.
Before my throat can produce a single syllable, Vanessa laughs and waves her manicured hand.
"Oh, darling, don't mind her clumsy theatrics, she had a stupid slip in the flower cooler downstairs."
My lungs seize in my chest.
The temperature in the vast room seems to plummet ten degrees in a single second.
Luca’s head turns with excruciating slowness toward the beautiful woman sitting at his right hand.
"In the cooler?" Luca asks, his voice chillingly level.
"Yes, sweetheart, the florist needed help unpacking extra crates and Natalie slipped on the wet tile."
Vanessa smiles, leaning close enough to touch the lapel of his tailored jacket.
I stare fixedly at the edge of the linen tablecloth, my nails digging into the seams of my skirt.
May you like
Because Vanessa Bellini had locked that cooler door herself.
And she had specifically threatened to bury me if I ever mentioned what was hidden behind the steel racks.
