Chapter 1: The Silver Knife and the Pantry Door
The heavy mahogany door clicked shut behind the security guard’s broad shoulder, cutting off the warm amber glow of the formal dining room. My fingers trembled against the stiff cotton of my black-and-white uniform apron as I stared at the cold white tiles of the service pantry. Across from me, the guard—a heavy-set man named Miller whose dark suit always smelled faintly of gun oil and stale peppermint—crossed his arms over his chest.
"You lost your mind in there, girl," Miller muttered, his voice a low gravel rasp that echoed off the porcelain stack behind us. "Mr. Romano doesn't tolerate chatter. Especially not from the girl hired to clear the crystal."
"She looked right at him," I whispered, defending myself more out of panic than defiance. My heart was still hammering against my ribs like a trapped sparrow. "She’s three years old. What was I supposed to do? Let her pull on his sleeve until he broke her wrist?"
"Mr. Romano doesn't break wrists," Miller said, stepping closer until I could see the small scar cutting through his left eyebrow. "He just makes people vanish. Ask the last upstairs maid. One morning she was polishing the silver, the next her trunk was sitting by the iron gates."
Before I could answer, the pantry door swung open with a slow, agonizing creak. The tall, sharp figure of Dante Romano filled the frame. He had removed his suit jacket, leaving only the crisp white shirt unbuttoned at the collar, revealing the dark ink of tattoos crawling up the side of his thick neck and disappearing beneath the dark fabric. In his right hand, he still held the silver dining knife, the blade catching the dim hallway sconce and throwing a cold, thin line of light across the floorboards.
Neither of us spoke for three long seconds. The silence in the Romano estate was never empty; it felt heavy, weighted down by generations of dark wood paneling and unspoken rules. Dante looked down at me, his dark eyes narrowed under thick, straight brows. His full beard twitched as his jaw clenched.
"She likes you," Dante said. His voice was a baritone rumble that seemed to vibrate in my chest. It wasn't a question, nor was it an accusation. It was simply a heavy fact laid out between us on the cold floor.
"I only tried to pull her back, sir," I managed, keeping my gaze fixed on the third button of his unbuttoned shirt. "It wasn't my place to speak out of turn."
May you like
"No," Dante agreed quietly, turning the silver knife over once in his scarred fingers. "It wasn't. Go to your quarters. Miller will brief you on your new duties at six sharp."
He turned on his heel before I could nod, his leather shoes making no sound as he walked back into the shadows of the west wing. Miller let out a long breath he seemed to have been holding since the dinner table, his expression hardening once more as he pointed a thick finger toward the back stairs. You heard him. Move.
