Chapter 5 - Debts of the Romano Family
By noon, the estate was eerily quiet.
A black town car had arrived at eleven o'clock sharp. Two burly drivers had loaded six massive Louis Vuitton trunks into the back while Isabella, dressed in a black trench coat and oversized dark sunglasses, walked down the grand front steps without speaking a single word to anyone.
She hadn't looked back. But as the car swept down the long gravel driveway, kicking up dust against the manicured hedges, I could feel the invisible crosshairs lingering on my back.
I spent the next three days confined to the morning room, just as Luca had ordered.
It was a bright, oval-shaped room lined with floor-to-ceiling French doors that opened out onto the rose gardens. Sunlight poured across the wide mahogany table where Charles had stacked dozens of ancient, leather-bound estate registries dating back to the late nineteenth century.
My job was simple: open each volume, read the handwritten deed transfers, property acquisitions, and shipping manifests, and type the summaries into an encrypted laptop Luca’s IT team had set up for me.
With my right hand wrapped in gauze, I typed slowly, using mostly my left hand and the index finger of my right. It was tedious, quiet work, but for the first time in six months, I wasn't on my feet scrubbing baseboards or dodging the casual cruelties of the upper class.
On the fourth afternoon, the French doors clicked open.
I looked up, expecting Charles with my afternoon tea, but found Luca standing in the threshold.
He had discarded his suit jacket. His white dress shirt was unbuttoned at the collar, the sleeves rolled up to his forearms, revealing strong, corded muscles and a thin, jagged scar that ran from his left wrist to his elbow—a relic of a past he never talked about.
"How is the hand?" he asked, walking into the room.
"Much better, Mr. Moretti," I said, instinctively sitting up straighter. "Dr. Mercer said the stitches can come out on Monday."
Luca pulled out the heavy wooden armchair across from me and sat down. He didn't ask for permission; it was his house, his chair, his table. He leaned back, crossing his long legs, and looked at the stack of open books in front of me.
"Find anything interesting?"
I hesitated, my fingers resting on the keyboard.
"I... I found some transactions from 1984," I admitted carefully. "Between your grandfather and an import company called Romano Maritime."
A flicker of dark amusement crossed Luca’s face. "And what did you deduce from those transactions, Emma?"
I swallowed. I knew I was stepping onto dangerous ground. A maid was supposed to dust the books, not read the financial ledgers. But Luca’s eyes weren't angry; they were curious. Testing me.
"Your grandfather didn't buy shares in Romano Maritime," I said softly, looking down at the yellowed parchment. "He bailed them out. He absorbed forty percent of their bad debt during the harbor strike, and in exchange, the Romano family signed over the deed to the deep-water piers in Brooklyn."
Luca’s smile deepened, cold and sharp. "Go on."
"The Romano family doesn't own those piers," I said, looking up into his dark eyes. "You do. You've owned them for forty years. Isabella's father isn't a partner in your shipping enterprise. He’s a tenant."
Luca leaned forward, resting his forearms on the table. The sudden proximity made my breath hitch.
"Very few people understand that, Emma," he said quietly. "Victor Romano spends tens of millions of dollars every year projecting the illusion that our families are equals. He bought his daughter diamonds, sent her to finishing schools in Switzerland, and paraded her through high society to make people believe the Morettis needed the Romanos."
"Why did you agree to marry her?" The question slipped past my lips before I could filter it.
I instantly froze, horrified by my own audacity. "I'm sorry, Mr. Moretti. That was completely out of line. I had no right to ask—"
"I agreed to marry her because it was the cleanest way to absorb their remaining assets without bloodshed," Luca answered plainly, cutting off my apology without a hint of irritation. "A corporate merger sealed with a wedding ring. It keeps the streets quiet. It keeps the banks happy. And it keeps Victor Romano on a leash."
He paused, his eyes narrowing slightly as he studied my face.
"Or at least, that was the plan," he added.
"And now?" I whispered.
"Now, Victor Romano is furious," Luca said. "His daughter was sent home in disgrace. Her pride is shredded. And a man with bruised pride and mounting debts is the most dangerous creature on earth."
A chill ran down my spine. "Mr. Moretti... you shouldn't have done that. Not for me. I’m just an employee. If she wanted me fired, you should have just fired me. I could have found another job. You didn't have to risk your business—"
"Do you think I did that for you?" Luca asked, his voice dropping into a low, gravelly tone that sent a shiver straight through me.
I blinked, confused. "Didn't you?"
Luca stood up from his chair. He walked around the table with slow, deliberate steps until he was standing directly behind me. I could feel the heat radiating from his body, the faint scent of rain and tobacco wrapping around me like a velvet shroud.
He rested both of his hands on the high back of my chair, leaning down until his lips were near my ear.
"I did it because Isabella thought she could bring violence into my sanctuary and lie to my face," he murmured. "I did it because she thought her last name gave her the right to crush anyone who didn't bow to her."
He paused, his breath warm against my neck.
"And I did it because when you were kneeling on that pantry floor, bleeding, you didn't cry. You didn't beg. You took the blow, wrapped your wound, and kept working."
He stood up straight, breaking the spell, and walked toward the French doors.
"Weakness disgusts me, Emma," he said, looking out at the rose garden. "Cruelty born of insecurity disgusts me even more. But quiet strength... that is something this house hasn't seen in a very long time."
Before I could process the weight of his words, the morning room doors burst open.
Charles stood in the entryway, out of breath, his usually immaculate hair slightly disheveled. He held a silver tray, upon which sat a single, heavy cream-colored envelope sealed with dark red wax.
"Sir," Charles gasped, ignoring my presence entirely. "A courier just delivered this to the front gate. By motorcycle. He wouldn't leave until it was placed directly in your hands."
Luca turned slowly from the window. "Who is it from?"
"Victor Romano," Charles replied, his hands trembling slightly as he held the tray forward. "His personal crest."
The room went dead silent.
Luca didn't rush. He walked over to the tray, picked up the envelope, and slid a silver letter opener through the wax seal with absolute calm. He pulled out a single sheet of heavy parchment, his dark eyes scanning the handwritten lines in less than ten seconds.
A slow, terrifying smile spread across Luca’s lips.
"What does it say, sir?" Charles asked cautiously.
Luca crumpled the parchment into a tight ball and let it drop to the floor.
"Victor wants a sit-down," Luca said smoothly. "Tonight. At the St. Jude Hotel ballroom. He’s hosting their annual autumn gala."
Luca looked back at me, his eyes blazing with an intensity that made the hair on my arms stand on end.
"And he specifically requested," Luca murmured, "that I bring the staff member who caused his daughter so much distress."
My blood ran cold. "Me?"
"Yes, Emma," Luca said, his voice dropping into a deadly, thrilling cadence. "You. He wants to put you on display. He wants to humiliate us both in front of the entire syndicate."
"I... I can't go there, Mr. Moretti," I stammered, terror seizing my throat. "I'm a maid. Those people... they will destroy me."
Luca walked back toward me. He reached down, grasped my chin between his thumb and forefinger, and lifted my head until our eyes locked. His grip was firm, unyielding, yet strangely protective.
"No one touches what belongs to this house, Emma," he said fiercely. "You will not wear an apron tonight. You will wear silk. You will wear diamonds. And you will walk into that ballroom on my arm."
My breath caught in my throat as his thumb grazed my jawline.
May you like
"Get Charles to measure you," Luca commanded, releasing my chin. "The seamstress arrives at two. The war has begun, Emma. Let's make sure they see who has already won."
***
