Chapter 4: Shadows in the Drawing Room
The knock on the heavy oak doors of the drawing room came at four o'clock, sharp and demanding. I was busy folding a stack of miniature linens on the mahogany side table while Sophie nored softly on the velvet settee, her cheek pressed against the gray rabbit's worn belly.
Before I could reach the heavy panels, the door pushed open of its own accord. A man in an impeccably tailored navy suit stepped into the room, smelling faintly of expensive scotch and wet wool. It wasn't Dante. This man was leaner, clean-shaven, with slicked-back blonde hair and cold, pale eyes that swept over the opulent furnishings without a shred of appreciation.
"Where is he?" the man demanded, his voice carrying an abrasive, corporate sharpness that grated against the quiet dignity of the room.
"Mr. Romano is in the lower study, sir," I said, stepping between the visitor and the sleeping child on the settee. My heart gave a heavy thump against my ribs. I recognized him from the society columns left in the staff breakroom: Julian Romano, Dante’s younger brother and the vice-president of Romano Holdings.
Julian didn't look at me. His pale eyes scanned the room, finally landing on Sophie’s small form curled on the velvet. A thin, unpleasant smile touched the corners of his mouth.
"So this is the little charity case," Julian said, taking a step forward. His leather shoes clicked sharply on the parquet floor. "Dante has always had a sentimental streak that will ruin us all. Does she even know who her father was, or are we still pretending she dropped out of the sky?"
"Mr. Romano didn't authorize visitors in the west wing," I said, my voice rising slightly, though I kept my eyes fixed on his chest to avoid his predatory gaze. "You need to leave."
Julian stopped three feet away, looking down at me with an expression of icy amusement. "You have quite a mouth for a girl in a maid's uniform. I wonder how long Dante will let you keep it before he remembers who pays your wages. This house isn't a nursery, sweetheart. It’s a holding pen."
"Get out," a voice cut through the air from the doorway like the snap of a whip.
Julian froze. Dante stood in the entrance, his broad shoulders filling the frame. He had his suit jacket back on, dark and severe, but the top button of his shirt remained open. His face was a mask of cold fury, the veins in his thick neck standing out in sharp relief against his tattoos.
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Julian turned slowly, a tight, defensive smile plastered across his face. "Dante. I just wanted to see how the family investment was holding up."
"She is not an investment," Dante said, his voice dropping into a register so quiet and flat that it was infinitely more terrifying than a shout. He took two steps into the room, closing the distance between the brothers until Julian was forced to take a step back. "And this is the last time you set foot in this wing without an invitation. Get out of my house, Julian."
