Chapter 2 - UNDER THE GAUZE
(1,500 words)
The silence in the dining room became absolute. The quiet that usually surrounded Luca Moretti deepened into something suffocating, a heavy pressure that made every breath feel earned.
“Luca, darling, don’t be ridiculous,” Isabella said, stepping forward, her silk dress rustling against the marble floor. She tried to place a hand on his arm, but Luca didn’t move toward her, nor did he look at her. His posture remained locked, his focus pinned entirely on me. “It’s breakfast. The child is eating. You don’t need to turn a clumsy servant’s kitchen accident into a crime scene.”
“Isabella,” Luca said softly. He didn't raise his voice, but the tone made her hand freeze an inch from his sleeve. “Sit down.”
She blinked, her polished veneer cracking for a fraction of a second. “Excuse me?”
“Sit down,” he repeated, his gaze never leaving my face. “Or leave the room.”
Isabella’s jaw clenched. Color flooded her cheeks, bright and angry, but she backed away two steps and sat on the edge of a high-backed velvet chair.
Luca turned his full attention back to me. He pulled out the chair beside Matteo and sat down. He didn't look like a mob boss in that moment; he looked like a predator executing a patient, methodical hunt.
“Emma,” he said quietly, reaching across the table. His large, warm hand hovered near my wrist, not touching me, waiting for permission. “Unwrap it.”
My fingers were trembling so badly I couldn't get a grip on the end of the medical tape. The pink stain in the center of the gauze was growing wider, aggravated by the tension in my hand.
Luca didn't press me. He simply watched my struggling fingers, then reached out and gently closed his long fingers around my wrist. His skin was warm, his touch surprisingly careful for a man whose hands carried a violent reputation across the city.
“May I?” he asked softly.
I nodded once, unable to find my voice.
With slow, practiced movements, Luca peeled away the tape. He began unrolling the thick layers of white gauze. Round and round the fabric came off, dropping onto the mahogany table until the raw, angry wound was exposed to the morning light.
Matteo gasped, pulling his little hand back. “Big ouchie.”
It wasn't a straight, smooth slice like the edge of a tin can lid would make.
It was a jagged, starburst pattern of deep lacerations across the center of my palm, surrounding a deep puncture wound where a large shard of heavy crystal glass had driven into the fleshy part below my thumb. Small bits of clear glass shimmered beneath the dried blood, embedded too deep for me to pick out in the dark bathroom last night.
Luca stared at my palm for three full seconds. The air around him turned ice-cold.
A tin can lid leaves a clean, straight line. A crushed glass tumbler leaves a crushing, jagged wound. Anyone who had ever seen a bar fight or a street brawl knew the difference instantly—and Luca Moretti had seen both before he turned twenty.
He slowly looked up from my hand to Isabella.
Isabella was staring at the wound, her chest rising and falling rapidly. “She... she must have panicked when the can burst,” she stammered, her voice rising an octave. “You know how careless these girls are, Luca. They rush through washing up, they drop things, they make excuses—”
“Shut up,” Luca said.
The command hit the room like a gunshot. The chef in the kitchen doorway instantly backed out of sight. The nanny assistant froze.
Luca stood up from his chair, still holding my wrist with delicate precision. He looked down at Matteo. “Matteo. Go with Rosa to the playroom.”
Matteo looked between his father and me, sensing the shift in the air. “Is Miss Emma okay?”
“Miss Emma is going to be fine,” Luca said softly, his voice softening just enough for his son. “Go on, champ.”
Rosa, the assistant, practically bolted into the room, took Matteo’s hand, and ushered him out through the side doors.
The moment the doors clicked shut, Luca released my wrist. He turned to face Isabella.
“Luca, I swear to you—” Isabella began, standing up from her chair.
“Where is the glass?” Luca asked.
Isabella swallowed hard. “What?”
“The glass you swept up last night,” Luca said, taking a step toward her. His dark suit jacket shifted, revealing the leather shoulder holster beneath his arm. “Where is it?”
“I didn't sweep up anything!” she snapped, trying to summon her usual aristocratic defiance. She was the daughter of Don Vittorio, an old-money mafia patriarch who had aligned his territory with Luca’s six months ago. She was used to being untouchable. “I was in my room all evening! Why are you taking the word of a hired nanny over your fiancée?!”
“Because my son heard her crying,” Luca said, his voice dropping into a register that made the hair on the back of my neck stand up. “And my son doesn't lie. But you do, Isabella. You’ve been lying since the day you moved into this house.”
Luca turned back to me. He looked at my pale face, the blood dripping slowly onto the table from my palm, and the sheer terror in my eyes. He realized then why I hadn't spoken. I was a nobody—an orphan hired through an agency six months ago to care for his motherless boy. Isabella was a mafia princess. If I accused her, I knew I would be thrown out onto the street, or worse.
Luca pulled a pristine linen handkerchief from his breast pocket and gently wrapped it around my bleeding hand.
“Get your coat, Emma,” he said softly to me.
I blinked, confused. “What?”
“We’re going to the hospital,” he said. He didn't look at Isabella as he spoke his next words, but every syllable was a sentence. “And when we get back... the locks on the front gate will be changed.”
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Isabella gasped, her face draining of every drop of color. “You can’t do this! My father—”
“Your father gave you to me to secure an alliance,” Luca said, finally turning his dark, lethal eyes toward her. “He didn't give you permission to touch what belongs in my house. Pack your bags, Isabella. You have two hours.”
