Chapter 2
Clara’s lungs seized.
She knew that look. It was the face of a man who ruled an empire built on shadows and blood, and right now, his gaze was sweeping the room as if hunting a ghost.
"Alessandro?" Vivian stepped forward, her voice high and strained. "What is that? It’s just garbage from the servants' quarters! What are you doing?"
Alessandro didn't spare her a glance. "Clear the gallery. Now."
His head of security, a hulking man named Marco, stepped into motion instantly. Within thirty seconds, private security guards were escorting the wealthy patrons and rival bosses toward the garden terrace. Only Don Ricci lingered for a heartbeat near the double doors, his silver hair gleaming under the chandelier, his watchful gaze lingering on Clara before Marco firmly closed the mahogany doors.
The corridor was suddenly empty, save for Alessandro, Vivian, Clara, and Emma.
Emma reached up toward Alessandro’s tailored sleeve, her small hand tugging at the fine wool. "Can I have Mr. Bunny back, please?"
Clara swept Emma into her arms, pulling her back against her chest. "Mr. Moretti, please. The toy belonged to my late husband, Julian. It’s an old toy. It has nothing to do with this house or your guests."
Alessandro turned his piercing gray eyes on her. The intensity of his stare was suffocating.
"Your husband?" Alessandro asked, his voice deceptively calm. "Julian Bennett was an accountant from upstate New York who died in a car accident three years ago. That is what your background file states."
"It’s the truth," Clara whispered, holding Emma tighter.
"Then explain why the private crest of the Valenti syndicate—a family eradicated six years ago—is hand-embroidered into the seam of your daughter’s doll with military surgical silk."
Clara felt the floor tilt beneath her feet. "I... I don't know what that means. Julian gave it to me before Emma was born. He bought it at an estate market in Chicago."
"She’s lying, Alessandro!" Vivian interjected, stepping between them with venom in her eyes. "She’s an infiltrator! Look at her! You let these charity cases into your private residence, and now Ricci is looking at us like we have a leak! Fire her tonight. Throw them out on the street!"
"Vivian," Alessandro said, his tone razor-thin. "Go to your quarters."
Vivian stared at him in disbelief. "I am your future wife! You cannot order me around like—"
"Go," he repeated.
Vivian turned on her heel, her red dress swirling in a violent storm of silk, and stormed down the eastern wing.
Alessandro looked back at Clara. He knelt down again, but this time his eyes never left Clara's face. Carefully, deliberately, he handed the rabbit back to Emma. Emma hugged it to her neck, burying her nose into the plush fur.
"Mrs. Bennett," Alessandro said quietly. "You will pack a bag for yourself and Emma. You are moving from the staff quarters to the west suite on the third floor."
"What?" Clara gasped. "The family wing? Mr. Moretti, I am a housekeeper. I cannot stay there."
"You are no longer cleaning rugs," Alessandro said, rising to his feet. "Until I find out how that crest entered this estate, you and your daughter do not leave my sight. Marco will stand outside your door."
He turned and walked toward his private study, leaving Clara standing alone in the silent, echoing corridor.
Trembling, Clara carried Emma into the private service lift. Once inside, she set Emma down on the brass bench and dropped to her knees, checking her daughter’s arms and face one more time.
"Mommy, why did the man look at Mr. Bunny like that?" Emma asked softly.
"It’s okay, sweetheart. Everything is fine," Clara lied, smoothing Emma’s curls.
As she pulled Emma’s left shoe off to shake out a stray pebble, something fell from inside the canvas lining and hit the metal floor with a soft tap.
It was not a pebble.
It was a tightly folded slip of heavy parchment, sealed with a drop of dried black wax.
Clara unfolded it with shaking hands. Inside, written in sharp, familiar handwriting she had not seen in three years, were four words:
May you like
*He knows who died.*
***
