Chapter 3 - The Sanctuary on the Fourth Floor
The east wing of the fourth floor didn't look like the rest of the mansion.
Where the lower floors were grand, velvet-curtained, and imposing—designed to intimidate visiting politicians and business rivals—the fourth floor was modern, quiet, and strikingly intimate. Soft oak paneling lined the walls, and high arched windows overlooked the sweeping, snow-dusted pine forests of the Boise foothills.
The suite Vane unlocked for me was larger than my entire apartment. A massive king-sized bed draped in crisp white linens sat against the far wall, framed by a fireplace that crackled with a low, warming gas flame.
"Doctor Mercer has already reviewed your charts," Vane informed me, stepping aside as I entered. "He will arrive shortly with pain medication and topical ointments for the tissue damage. Food will be delivered directly to your room."
"Thank you, Mr. Vane," I murmured, holding the fresh clothes he had handed me—a soft cashmere sweater and plush trousers, far higher quality than anything I had ever owned.
Vane paused in the doorway, his hand resting on the brass handle. He turned to look at me, his sharp grey eyes softening by a fraction of a degree.
"Miss Ivy," he said quietly. "I have served the DeLuca family for thirty-two years. I served Carmine's father before him."
I looked up, sensing the weight behind his words.
"In all those years," Vane continued, "I have seen Carmine order hundreds of men out of this house. I have seen him rebuild empires and tear down enemies without blinking an eye. But I have never seen him spend four hours sitting in a basement room with a silver tray of cold water, making sure a man felt every single tear he caused a woman."
A chill raced up my spine, settling in the pit of my stomach.
"Rocco is gone," Vane added flatly. "He will never walk through this city again. You can breathe now."
With a short, respectful nod, Vane pulled the heavy oak door shut, leaving me alone in the silent suite.
I stood there for a long moment, listening to the crackle of the fireplace. He will never walk through this city again. The reality of what Carmine had done hit me like a wave of cold ocean water. Rocco hadn't just been fired; he had been erased.
I walked slowly into the adjoining bathroom. A massive marble soaking tub stood in the center, flanked by glass counters topped with crystal bottles of bath oils and lotions. I walked up to the vanity mirror and finally looked at myself in the bright LED light.
I gasped.
My reflection was horrifying. My left eye was ringed in deep, bruised purple and swollen halfway shut. My bottom lip was cracked and crusted with dried blood, and the grip marks around my throat were unmistakable—dark, angry handprints stamped into my pale skin like a brand.
I stripped off the stained, torn cotton maid's dress, letting it crumple to the floor. Stepping under the roaring hot stream of the marble shower, I scrubbed my skin until it burned, trying to wash away the lingering sensation of Rocco's whiskey breath and rough hands.
By the time I finished dressing in the cashmere clothes Vane had provided, a gentle knock sounded at the door.
Doctor Mercer—a kind, elderly man with a silver beard and a gentle demeanor—spent twenty minutes checking my ribs, dressing my split lip, and applying a soothing cooling salve to my bruised neck. He gave me a prescription for anti-inflammatory medication and strict orders to rest.
When he left, the suite fell back into absolute silence.
I couldn't sleep. The bed was too soft, the room too grand, and the silence too loud. I paced the floor, watching the winter fog roll across the foothills outside the massive windows.
Around 2:00 PM, the heavy door of my suite clicked open.
I spun around, my heart leaping into my throat.
Carmine DeLuca stood in the doorway.
He had changed out of the clothes from last night. He wore a dark charcoal suit, tailored to perfection, though his tie was loosened at the throat. He looked immaculate, save for one tiny detail: a small, dark red smudge dried against the cuff of his left white sleeve.
His dark eyes swept over me, taking in the cashmere clothes, the bandages, and the color slowly returning to my face.
"You look better," Carmine said. His voice was low, smooth, and laced with that unmistakable command that demanded obedience without ever raising its volume.
"Mr. DeLuca," I stammered, taking an involuntary step back toward the fireplace.
Carmine noticed the movement. He didn't come closer. Instead, he leaned against the doorframe, crossing his arms over his broad chest.
"You flinch around me," he noted softly.
"I... I flinch around everyone right now," I admitted, my voice barely above a whisper. "I'm sorry."
"Don't apologize for surviving," he said flatly. He reached into his coat pocket, pulled out a gold cigarette case, and paused, looking at me. "Do you mind?"
I shook my head quickly.
He lit a cigarette, inhaling deeply before blowing a thin plume of smoke toward the high ceiling.
"Vane told you about the debt?" Carmine asked.
"Yes," I said, my voice trembling with an emotion I couldn't quite control. "Mr. DeLuca, fifty-two thousand dollars... I don't know how to repay you. I don't have anything to give you. If you expect me to—"
"I don't expect anything," Carmine interrupted, his eyes darkening. He took a step into the room, his long strides effortlessly closing the distance between us until he stood just three feet away. The scent of woodsmoke, expensive tobacco, and rain clung to him. "I told you last night. It was not charity. It was accountability. A man who wore my colors put his hands on you under my roof. The debt is settled, Ivy. You owe me nothing."
I stared up at him, my heart hammering against my ribs. "Then why am I up here? On the fourth floor?"
Carmine held my gaze for a long, agonizing second.
"Because Rocco had friends," Carmine said coldly. "Men who might think they can earn leverage by targeting the girl who brought him down. Downstairs, you are vulnerable. Up here, you are beside me."
"Beside you?" I repeated, confused.
"You stay in this suite for as long as it takes for me to clean house," Carmine said, his tone leaving zero room for argument. "You eat my food, you sleep in my bed, and you let my guards stand at your door. You are under my roof, Ivy."
May you like
He reached out, his long fingers hovering just inches from my bruised cheek, giving me time to pull away. When I stayed still, his thumb gently brushed against my jawline, startlingly warm and impossibly soft for a man who had erased a life just hours ago.
"And nobody hurts what belongs to my house," he whispered.
