Chapter 4 - Morning Light and Broken Glass
By seven in the morning, the Marchetti mansion was beginning to wake. The first-shift maids moved quietly through the grand hallways, dusting antique tables and polishing brass knockers. Mrs. Doyle, severe and impeccably groomed in her gray wool dress, stood in the main dining room inspecting the silver place settings for Dante’s morning briefing.
Sienna Cole stood near the service pantry, holding a tray of fresh pastries. Her face was pale, the dark purple bruise on her cheek partially covered by a heavy layer of liquid foundation she’d borrowed from another maid, though the swelling remained stubbornly visible.
Every time a floorboard creaked or a heavy door opened, her stomach dropped.
Did he do it? she thought, her hands trembling as she adjusted a croissant on the silver tray. Did Dante actually confront him, or was last night just a cruel joke played by a monster who wanted to see how desperate I was?
"Sienna," Mrs. Doyle’s sharp voice cut through her thoughts.
Sienna jumped, nearly dropping the tray. "Yes, Mrs. Doyle?"
"Take this coffee service to the master study immediately. Mr. Marchetti is waiting."
"Mr. Marchetti?" Sienna’s breath caught. "I thought he was out."
"He returned an hour ago," Mrs. Doyle said, her eyes narrowing as she looked at Sienna’s face. "And try not to look so terrified. The master does not bite unless provoked. Though heaven knows what happened to your cheek. If you’re clumsy, this is not the house for you."
"Yes, Mrs. Doyle. I understand."
Sienna balanced the heavy silver tray on her palms and walked toward the grand staircase. Her legs felt like lead. Every step up the polished mahogany stairs felt like an ascent toward a trial she wasn't prepared to face.
When she reached the master study, the double doors were cracked open. She knocked softly with her knuckle.
"Enter," Dante’s voice called from within.
She pushed the door open with her hip and stepped inside.
Dante was standing by the tall arched window, looking out over the frosted gardens. He had changed into a fresh charcoal-gray suit, his white shirt crisp and unbuttoned at the top collar. He didn't look like a man who had spent the night hunting down a traitor through the dark streets of New Jersey. He looked rested, terrifyingly composed, and completely in control.
Sienna set the silver tray down on the edge of his mahogany desk, her hands shaking so badly the porcelain teacup rattled against its saucer.
"Put it down, Sienna," Dante said, turning away from the window.
She stepped back, keeping her head lowered. "Mr. Marchetti... about last night—"
"Last night is being handled," Dante interrupted smoothly. He walked over to the desk, picked up the porcelain cup, and took a slow sip of black coffee. His dark eyes swept over her face, lingering for a fraction of a second on the bruise she had tried to conceal with makeup. "You shouldn't have tried to cover that."
"I didn't want the other staff asking questions," she whispered.
"They won't be asking questions anymore." Dante set the cup down. "Marco Vitali will not be returning to this estate."
Sienna’s breath hitched. "You... you fired him?"
"I relieved him of his duties permanently," Dante corrected, his voice devoid of emotion. "He is currently being detained by my security detail. By noon, he will be gone from New Jersey entirely—either in a federal holding cell or a box six feet under, depending on how cooperative he is with Silas regarding his offshore accounts."
A wave of dizziness washed over Sienna. The terror that had lived in her chest for months—the suffocating, crushing weight of Marco’s shadow—seemed to fracture, dissolving into the cold morning air.
"He's... he's really gone?" she breathed, a tear slipping down her cheek.
"He's gone," Dante confirmed. He stepped closer to her, stopping just inches away. The sheer presence of him was overwhelming, filling the space between them with a heavy, magnetic intensity. "And your debt is cleared."
Sienna looked up, her eyes wide with shock. "Cleared? But the twelve thousand—"
"The twelve thousand was a fabrication of an extortionist using my ledger as a slush fund," Dante said firmly. "As far as the Marchetti estate is concerned, you owe nothing. In fact, effective immediately, your salary is doubled, and your shift is moved to the day rotation in the main wing. You will no longer clean the basement or work nights."
"Mr. Marchetti... I can't accept that," she stammered, overwhelmed. "People will talk. They'll say—"
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"Let them talk," Dante interrupted, his gaze locking onto hers with a fierce, possessive heat. "In this house, my word is law. If anyone questions your position, they can answer to me."
Before Sienna could find the words to respond, a sharp, frantic hammering echoed from the double doors of the study.
