Chapter 4 - A Summons to the Study
The silence of the service quarters was short-lived. I had barely finished securing the linen bandage around my left wrist, pulling the black uniform sleeve down to hide the thick white gauze, when a sharp, rhythmic double-knock rapped against the heavy oak door.
I didn't need to ask who it was. Nobody else walked through the downstairs domestic corridor with that measured, unhurried cadence.
I opened the door to find Marcus standing in the dim light of the hallway. He was dressed in his usual charcoal suit, his broad shoulders filling the narrow corridor. His face was a mask of cold, clinical detachment—the kind of expression men wore when they were deciding whether a problem required a conversation or a burial. His dark eyes flicked downward for a fraction of a second, registering the slight stiffness in my posture before rising back to meet my gaze.
"He wants his coffee in the study," Marcus said. His voice was low, flat, and carried the absolute finality of an order that had already been executed in his mind before he spoke it. "Now."
"Yes, Mr. Marcus," I replied, keeping my voice steady, though my heart gave a sharp, unpleasant lurch against my ribs.
Marcus didn't move away immediately. He lingered in the doorway, his hands resting naturally at his sides, just inches from where a concealed holster hung beneath his jacket. It wasn't that he suspected me of anything specific—Marcus suspected everyone of everything, all the time. It was his job. But my failure to remain invisible during dinner, the clumsy way I had handled the silver platter, and the way the boss had paused to look at me had put a pin on my back.
"Don't keep him waiting," Marcus added, turning on his heel and walking three paces down the hall to stand guard, his back to me.
I stepped back inside the tiny pantry and exhaled a slow, controlled breath, willing the tension out of my shoulders. Every movement of my left arm sent a dull, throbbing ache through my forearm, reminding me of the clumsy miscalculation that had landed me in this predicament earlier that evening. But pain was a luxury I couldn't afford. In this house, weakness was translated into liability, and liabilities were routinely pruned.
I moved to the small counter where the silver coffee service was kept. The heavy silver pot was already polished to a mirror finish, reflecting the amber glow of the wall sconce. Beside it, I arranged a delicate porcelain cup and saucer, a silver creamer, and a small crystal bowl of sugar cubes. My fingers trembled slightly as I lifted the heavy pot to test its weight. The strain shot straight up my bandaged wrist, causing my breath to hitch. I clenched my jaw, forced my fingers to lock around the insulated handle, and steadied the vessel with my right hand, distributing the burden away from the injured joint.
I set the items onto a smaller silver tray, checking to ensure nothing rattled. Every detail had to be immaculate. If the boss noticed a tremor in my hands or a bead of sweat on my forehead, it would invite questions I had no safe answers for.
When I stepped back out into the hallway, Marcus was waiting. He didn't offer to help, nor did he speak. He simply fell in step two paces behind me, his heavy leather shoes making a dull, muffled sound against the thick Persian runner that lined the corridor.
We moved past the sweeping staircase, heading toward the quieter, more secluded west wing of the estate where the private study was located. The air grew cooler here, the dark wood paneling heavier, the atmosphere thick with the lingering scent of cigar smoke, aged leather, and expensive bourbon. It was a room where decisions that altered lives were made over whispered conversations and locked doors.
Marcus stopped outside the heavy double doors of the study, raising his hand to rap twice.
"Enter," a deep, gravelly voice called from within.
Marcus pushed one of the heavy doors open just enough for me to pass through, staying in the hallway himself. As I stepped over the threshold, the door clicked shut softly behind me, sealing me inside the quiet, dimly lit room with the man who had already pinned me with his sharp, calculating gaze once tonight.
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The mob boss sat behind a massive mahogany desk, the green glass shade of his desk lamp casting a focused pool of amber light over a stack of leather-bound ledgers. He didn't look up immediately, leaving me standing in the center of the Persian rug, the silver tray growing heavier by the second against my aching wrist. The silence stretched between us, thick and suffocating, waiting for me to break it.
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