Chapter 3: The Master of the House
The conservatory was the one place in the Romano estate where the darkness of the architecture gave way to living green. Tall arched windows stretched from the mosaic tile floor to the glass ceiling, letting in a pale, watery afternoon sun that warmed the damp earth of the potted ferns and citrus trees. Sophie was squatting near a stone fountain, trailing her fingers in the recirculating water while her gray rabbit sat propped against a terra cotta pot, watching with button eyes.
I stood a few feet away, holding a brass watering can, my eyes fixed on the arched double doors leading back into the main house. Since morning, the tension in the corridors had ratcheted up a notch. The guards at the front gates had been doubled, and Miller had spent an hour arguing in hushed tones with an accountant who had arrived in a muddy sedan.
The heavy doors clicked open. Dante entered without his suit jacket this time, wearing a charcoal vest over his white shirt, the sleeves rolled up to his forearms to reveal the dark, intricate tattoos wrapping around his muscular wrists. He walked with a heavy, deliberate tread that made the gravel crunch under his boots.
Sophie didn't look up immediately, but her fingers stopped moving in the water. "You're back," she stated, as if he were simply returning from the other side of the room.
Dante stopped ten paces away, his hands sliding into his trouser pockets. His dark beard caught the pale light, and for a moment, I saw the deep violet shadows under his eyes—the exhaustion of a man who carried a city on his shoulders.
"I am," Dante said, his voice dropping into the quiet space of the glasshouse. He shifted his gaze from the child to me. "Mrs. Gable tells me you've taken to the west wing."
"I'm doing my job, Mr. Romano," I answered, keeping my voice steady, though my grip on the brass watering can tightened until my knuckles ached.
"Is it a job to you?" Dante asked, taking two slow steps closer. He stopped beside a towering monstera plant, his shadow falling long and dark across the tiles. "Most girls in your position last three days before they ask for their train fare and a letter of recommendation. You stayed through the night. You're here now."
"Someone has to watch her," I said, unable to keep the defensive edge entirely out of my tone. "She shouldn't be left alone in these empty rooms."
Dante’s gaze sharpened, a sudden flash of dangerous intelligence moving behind his dark eyes. He looked down at Sophie, who had picked up her gray rabbit and was holding it out toward him by one ragged ear.
"He wants to say hello," Sophie announced cheerfully.
May you like
Dante stared at the stuffed toy for a long, agonizing moment. The silence stretched until the sound of the fountain felt deafening. Then, with a slow, deliberate movement that seemed to cost him physical effort, Dante crouched down on one knee beside the child. The heavy fabric of his trousers pulled tight against his frame. He reached out with a large, tattooed hand and took the rabbit's paw between his thumb and forefinger.
"Hello, rabbit," Dante murmured, his voice losing its iron edge, softening into something low and ragged that felt like a secret meant only for the glass walls.
