Chapter 2 - Beneath the Servants' Stairs
The words hung between us in the cold kitchen air like frost on glass.
"I need you."
I stared at Raphael Orsini, trying to process the magnitude of what he was asking. The head of the Orsini family, a man who commanded hundreds of soldiers and controlled half of the city's commercial empire, was sitting in a dimly lit staff kitchen, shivering in wet wool, begging a maid for sanctuary.
"If anyone sees you here, Raphael," I whispered, using his first name for the very first time, "it won't just be my job on the line. It will be your authority."
"I don't care about authority tonight, Clara," he rasped. His eyes were bloodshot, heavy with a exhaustion that ran far deeper than lack of sleep. "I just need six hours. Six hours where no one asks me to sign a order, order a hit, or settle a territory dispute."
I looked down the narrow hallway toward the back pantry. Beyond the pantry lay a tiny, forgotten storage space beneath the servants' stairs—a space so small and tucked away that even the daily cleaning rounds bypassed it.
"Come," I said quietly, gripping his damp forearm.
He stood up heavily, swaying slightly. I guided him through the pantry door, past shelves of canned tomatoes, sacks of flour, and jars of preserved peaches. At the back wall, behind a sliding wooden partition disguised as linen shelving, was the alcove under the staircase.
It was tight, low-ceilinged, smelling of cedar chips and dry cotton. A narrow daybed with a folded army-issue wool blanket sat against the far wall—a remnant from decades ago when the house kept a night porter.
Raphael crouched to clear the low doorway. He collapsed onto the small bed, his broad shoulders practically spanning the entire width of the frame.
I grabbed an extra blanket from the shelf above and draped it over his shivering chest.
As I pulled the heavy wool up to his chin, his large hand shot out from beneath the cover and wrapped around my wrist. His grip was surprisingly warm, his fingers firm against my pulse point.
"Don't leave," he murmured, his voice slurring further as the warmth of the room finally caught up to his exhaustion.
"I have to go back to my room before the five-o'clock security shift, Raphael," I whispered, leaning down so my voice wouldn't carry up the stairwell. "If the night guards find my door unlocked, they'll search the wing."
His eyes fluttered shut, but his grip on my wrist didn't loosen.
Then, in a soft, barely audible whisper that seemed to slip directly from his subconscious into the quiet shadows of the alcove, he spoke.
"One hundred seven nights."
I froze.
"What did you say?" I asked, bending closer to his lips.
"One hundred seven nights..." he repeated, his breathing slowing down as sleep claimed him. "That's how long I've watched you... sitting under the kitchen light... studying your books..."
My heart slammed against my ribs with such force I thought he would feel it through my wrist.
One hundred seven nights.
For over three months, while I thought I was alone in the dead of night, memorizing pediatric dosage formulas and respiratory protocols under the single bulb of the secondary kitchen... Raphael had been watching.
May you like
He didn't let go of my hand until his body fully relaxed into deep, heavy sleep ten minutes later.
I slipped out of the alcove, closed the partition, and tiptoed back to my room just as the first gray light of dawn began to bleed through the rain-streaked windows.
