Chapter 3 - The Cold Light of Day
At 6:30 AM, the mansion woke up with its usual mechanical precision.
Steam hissed in the iron radiators. The distant clatter of pots and pans echoed from the main kitchen as Freddy Kovac began preparing breakfast. Below in the courtyard, engines hummed as the armored SUVs were warmed up for the morning convoy.
I stood in front of my small dresser mirror, pinning my hair into a tight, professional bun and buttoning the crisp collar of my lavender maid's dress. My hands were steady, but my mind was a chaotic storm.
Did he remember?
Would he remember waking up under the servants' stairs? Would he regret every word he had spoken in his drunken stupor?
By 7:00 AM, I was in the grand dining room, polishing the long mahogany table with beeswax.
Right on schedule, the heavy double doors opened.
Twelve men in dark suits marched into the study across the grand hallway. Among them was Victor Vane, Raphael’s ruthless second-in-command, a man with sharp blue eyes and a face carved out of cold granite.
"Where is the boss?" Victor’s harsh voice echoed across the foyer. "He’s never late."
"He didn't answer his internal line at six," another soldier replied nervously. "Should we check his master suite?"
"No," Victor snapped. "He doesn't like people in his private quarters. Wait five minutes."
My heart hammered against my ribs as I wiped down the wooden sideboard.
Five minutes passed. Then ten.
Just as Victor reached for his suit jacket to draw his firearm and initiate a house lockdown, the grand staircase creaked.
Raphael Orsini descended the marble stairs.
He looked impeccable.
His dark hair was perfectly styled, slicked back from his forehead. His black suit was freshly pressed, his white shirt blindingly crisp, his dark silk tie tied in a flawless Windsor knot. The gold signet ring glinted on his right little finger under the crystal chandeliers.
There was no trace of whiskey on his breath. No limp in his stride. No cut on his lip—he had concealed it expertly with shaving balm.
He looked like the absolute ruler of Chicago once again.
"Good morning, gentlemen," Raphael said, his baritone voice smooth, cold, and entirely in control. "Forgive the delay. I was reviewing the port manifests in my private study."
Victor relaxed his shoulders immediately. "Of course, boss. The shipments from Montreal are secured."
As Raphael walked toward his study, his eyes swept across the grand foyer.
For a fraction of a second, his gray gaze locked onto mine where I stood holding my polishing cloth.
His expression didn't change by a millimeter. He didn't smile. He didn't blink. He looked at me as if I were nothing more than a piece of furniture in his mansion.
"In my office, Victor," Raphael commanded, turning his back on me and stepping into the room.
The heavy oak doors clicked shut.
May you like
I released a long, shaky breath, letting my hands rest against the cool mahogany table.
He remembered nothing. Or worse—he remembered everything and had already decided to put me back in my place.
