Chapter 2 - The Crack in the Porcelain Facade
Luca stares at his fiancée for four agonizing seconds without blinking.
"The floor was wet, you say?" Luca asks smoothly.
"Well of course, Luca, it's where they store hundreds of freshly cut stems in ice water," Vanessa purrs.
"And you were down in the service basement to witness this accident yourself?"
Vanessa’s painted smile freezes for the fraction of a heartbeat.
"No, of course not, darling," she deflects with a light dismissive gesture.
"The catering manager mentioned it when they brought up the dinner wines."
"Is that so?" Luca murmurs, turning his focus back toward me.
His dark eyes pierce straight through my carefully practiced deferential posture.
"Step out of your shoe, Natalie," Luca orders quietly.
A ripple of quiet murmurs passes among the dinner guests.
Sitting three seats down, Luca's consigliere Marco lowers his silverware with a subtle clatter.
"Luca, really, this is completely unnecessary," Vanessa protests, her laugh turning high and brittle.
"We have the underboss of Philadelphia sitting at our table and you are inspecting the staff's footwear?"
Luca doesn't even glance her way.
"The shoe, Natalie."
My fingers tremble violently as I reach down and slip the heel of the leather flat off my foot.
A quiet gasp escapes the wife of a city councilman seated near the center of the table.
My ankle is swollen to twice its natural size, the skin taut and dangerously purplish-blue.
A raw, bloody scrape runs from the back of my heel up past the tendon.
It is an injury caused by heavy metal dragging over bone, not a slick floor tile.
Luca stands up from the table, rising to his full six-foot-three height.
The shadow of his imposing frame falls entirely across me.
He walks around the chair, stepping so close I can smell the clean cedar and tobacco of his cologne.
He crouches down on one knee right on the cold floor, completely indifferent to his designer trousers.
Without hesitation, his warm, rough fingers gently encircle the base of my calf.
I flinch back involuntarily, a small whimper escaping my throat.
"Who bandaged this?" he asks, feeling the crude paper towel shoved inside my nylon sock.
"I... I did it myself, Mr. Moretti," I whisper, terrified of looking at Vanessa.
"You've been carrying sixty-pound platters and solid crystal on this joint for four hours?"
"I needed to finish my shift, sir."
Luca’s jaw tightens until the muscle beneath his stubble visibly throbs.
"Why didn't you go to the urgent care clinic down the street?"
"I... I couldn't leave before dinner service."
"Because your supervisor wouldn't let you?"
I feel Vanessa’s burning, murderous stare boring directly into the side of my temple.
If I tell him the truth, Vanessa will ensure I disappear into the Chicago river before sunrise.
"I needed the overtime pay, Mr. Moretti," I lie, my voice barely audible over the hum of the air ducts.
Luca slowly rises back to his feet, dusting his knees off with a single fluid motion.
He looks at Vanessa, whose face has drained of some of its radiant color.
"The commercial flower cooler in the sub-basement has been turned off since Tuesday," Luca states plainly.
The air in the grand hall vanishes entirely.
"The compressor blew out five days ago," Luca continues, his tone deceptively conversational.
"All fresh floral deliveries have been held in the refrigerated catering van parked outside on the driveway."
Vanessa's throat bobs as she swallows.
"Well... perhaps she fell by the delivery van then, what does it matter where the maid slipped?"
"It matters," Luca says softly, "because you specifically named the sub-basement cooler."
Vanessa straightens her shoulders, her diamond necklace catching the harsh chandelier glare.
"Luca, you are making an embarrassing scene over a housemaid's clumsy foot."
"Mrs. Carter," Luca says, raising his voice just enough to carry toward the kitchen doors.
The head housekeeper, a pale woman in her late fifties, steps immediately out of the shadows.
"Yes, Mr. Moretti?"
"Escort Natalie up to the third-floor guest suite and have Dr. Harris paged immediately."
"Right away, sir."
"No, please, Mr. Moretti," I say frantically. "I can just go home to my apartment, I don't need—"
"You will sleep in the north wing tonight, Natalie, where my personal guards are stationed," he interrupts.
His eyes lock onto mine with an intensity that pins me to the spot.
"Nobody leaves this house, and nobody enters that room without my authorization."
Mrs. Carter takes me gently by the elbow, guiding my limping, broken steps toward the side exit.
As the heavy double doors swing shut behind me, I hear Vanessa’s shrill, angry laughter rise.
"Luca, you are being utterly ridiculous, we haven't even toasted the merger yet!"
I know the truth she is hiding.
May you like
I know who is locked inside that dark, freezing vault beneath the wine cellar.
And I know that once Luca opens that steel door, the blood spilled won't be from an accident.
