Chapter 4 - The West Parlor Confrontation
The hallways of the Moretti mansion at 2:00 AM were a maze of deep shadows, dim wall sconces, and the echoing drip of rain against centuries-old stained glass.
I hadn't stayed in the room.
After locking the door behind them, I waited ten seconds, grabbed a heavy silver candlestick from the hallway console just in case, and crept down the carpeted corridor toward the West Parlor. My heart thudded against my ribs like a trapped bird, every instinct screaming at me to turn back. But curiosity and a strange, unyielding protective streak dragged me forward.
I reached the arched double doors of the West Parlor. They were cracked open an inch, leaking a pale, warm golden light across the dark floorboards.
I held my breath, pressed my back against the wood paneling, and peered through the narrow gap.
Elena stood by the marble fireplace, looking breathtakingly elegant in a crimson silk robe, holding a crystal glass of amber scotch. Her blonde hair was swept up into an immaculate chignon, and her face wore an expression of calm, calculated patience.
Sitting across from her in a leather armchair was Dominic.
He looked pale, the strain of the poison and the wound visible in the tight set of his shoulders, but his posture was straight as a razor blade. Raphael stood silently by the doorway, his hand resting casually inside his jacket near his holster.
“You look tired, Dominic,” Elena said smoothly, taking a slow sip of her drink. Her voice was like silk sliding over broken glass. “The doctor said recovery from a shoulder wound can be brutal. Although, looking at you right now, I'd say something else is draining the life out of you.”
Dominic didn't move. He rested his elbows on his knees, his dark eyes locked onto hers with a predator's patience.
“Cut the act, Elena,” Dominic said, his voice a low, gravelly rumble. “The logs from the east wing terminal have your administrator keycard stamped all over them at 6:15 AM.”
Elena didn't flinch. She didn't drop her glass or gasp in shock. Instead, a slow, chilling smile spread across her red lips. She placed her scotch down on the mantelpiece with a soft clink.
“Ah. I always told father your tech security was overrated,” she laughed lightly, turning to face him fully. “You really thought I was going to sit around and play domestic housewife while you bled out in some warehouse? My father's syndicate has been waiting ten years to merge with your shipping routes. You refused the deal. So, naturally, we had to find a more… permanent way to restructure management.”
The casual cruelty in her tone made my stomach turn.
Dominic stood up slowly, towering over the fireplace. The air in the room grew so dense it felt impossible to breathe.
“You thought poisoning my water would hand you the empire?” Dominic stepped closer to her, his voice dropping into a lethal whisper. “You think my captains, my enforcers, or my council are going to answer to a traitor who couldn't even finish the job?”
“They won't have a choice,” Elena replied, her eyes flashing with sudden, manic ambition. As she spoke, her hand dipped quickly into the deep pocket of her silk robe. “Especially once the news breaks that Dominic Moretti died of a tragic, sudden medical complication following his unfortunate shooting.”
Before Raphael could even blink, Elena whipped her hand out of her pocket.
Clutched in her fingers was a sleek, silver-plated pocket pistol, leveled straight at Dominic's chest.
My breath caught. My hand tightened around the heavy silver candlestick in the hallway.
“It's a shame, really,” Elena sneezed, her finger tightening on the trigger. “I almost liked you, Dom. But business is business.”
She fired.
The deafening crack of the gunshot tore through the quiet parlor.
Time seems to slow down to a crawl. I saw Dominic moving with terrifying, unnatural speed—diving sideways just as the bullet shattered the wood paneling behind him. Raphael drew his weapon instantly, but before he could squeeze the trigger, a second figure burst out from the heavy velvet curtains near the back of the room.
One of Elena's hidden bodyguards lunged at Raphael, tackling him to the floor in a brutal struggle for his gun.
Elena spun around, her pistol tracking towards Dominic as he scrambled up from the floor, his injured shoulder screaming in pain, his own gun sliding out of reach across the slick marble hearth.
She smiled, her finger white-knuckled on the trigger.
"Goodbye, Dominic."
I couldn't watch him die.
Before my brain could process the danger, I pushed the heavy double doors wide open, raised the heavy silver candlestick high above my head, and sprinted straight into the parlor.
“Hey! Designer psychopath!” I scream at the top of my lungs.
Elena whipped around in sheer shock just as I brought the heavy antique candlestick down with every ounce of strength I had, smashing it directly across her wrist.
Crack.
With a sharp shriek of agony, Elena dropped the pistol. It clattered uselessly across the floorboards.
She stumbled backward, clutching her broken wrist, her face twisting in pure fury as she stared at me. “You—you filthy little maid—!”
Before she could finish her sentence, a massive shadow loomed over her.
Dominic was there.
He didn't hit her. He didn't need to. He simply grabbed her by the silk collar of her robe, lifting her slightly off her feet with one hand, his obsidian eyes burning with a rage so absolute it looked demonic.
“If you ever,” Dominic whispered, his voice shaking with restrained fury, “touch a single person in this house again, I won't just kill you. I will dismantle your father's entire syndicate piece by piece until there is nothing left of your family name to bury.”
Elena went limp in his grip, terror finally piercing through her icy composure.
Across the room, Raphael managed to pin the bodyguard to the floor, pressing the barrel of his gun against the man's temple. “Don't move or I'll blow your brains across the rug.”
The parlor fell utterly silent, save for the heavy rain lashing against the windows and our ragged breathing.
Dominic slowly let go of Elena, shoving her back into the arms of the nearest guards who had finally broken through the locked doors from the outside.
“Lock her in the basement holding cells,” Dominic ordered coldly, not even bothering to look at her as she was dragged away, cursing and screaming bloody murder.
Once the room cleared, leaving only Raphael, the guards, and us, Dominic turned around slowly.
His dark eyes found me standing by the fireplace, still clutching the dented silver candlestick, my chest heaving, adrenaline crashing hard through my veins.
Dominic walked over to me, stopping just inches away. He looked down at the candlestick, then up at my face.
“You were supposed to stay in the bedroom,” he said, his voice dangerously soft.
“Well,” I panted, trying to catch my breath, “cleaning up bullet holes in the living room rug sounds like a nightmare, so I figured I'd cut out the middleman.”
For a second, Dominic just stared at me. Then, slowly, a real, genuine smile broke across his face—a smile that chased away the shadows, the poison, and the blood.
May you like
He reached out, gently taking the heavy silver candlestick out of my trembling fingers and setting it on the mantel.
“Lucy,” he murmured, his hand lingering on my arm, warm and steady. “Remind me to give you a massive raise tomorrow. Because you are officially the worst maid in Chicago, and the best thing that ever happened to me.”
