Chapter 2 - THE LAUNDRY ROOM
The laundry room at the Moretti estate was large enough to house a commercial hotel's operations, smelling perpetually of bleach, hot steam, and expensive lavender detergent. When Leo—the lead security enforcer whose shoulders were broad enough to block most doorways—cleared the room, the other maids and domestic workers scurried out like mice caught in an attic. Only Bianca lingered near the frosted glass door, her manicured fingers tapping against her leather handbag, clearly waiting for Clara to fail spectacularly so she could enjoy the aftermath.
Matteo didn't leave. He stood in the open doorway, his imposing frame blocking the freezing wind from the courtyard. His hands were tucked casually into the pockets of his black wool trousers, his dark eyes fixed on Clara with an unreadable expression.
"You have twenty minutes," Matteo said, his voice a low, rhythmic purr that didn't invite debate. "If you cannot manage him, the vet will be called, and you will return to your duties in the linen closet."
"Understood," Clara said, keeping her voice steady despite the adrenaline hammering against her ribs.
She turned her attention back to Bruno. The massive cane corso had trotted into the laundry room cautiously, his heavy paws slipping slightly on the slick tile until Clara quickly pulled several large rubber floor mats from the storage rack and laid them out in a wide path leading to the corner.
Bruno watched her every move. His dark, intelligent eyes held a deep, heavy weariness. A dog that size didn't live in the mafia underworld without absorbing its pressures; he was a silent sentinel, guarding a man who trusted few things living.
"Hey, big guy," Clara murmured softly, lowering her posture. She didn't approach him head-on. She sat down cross-legged on one of the rubber mats several feet away, avoiding direct, aggressive eye contact while keeping her movements slow and deliberate. "I know. Cold water is a shock. And people shouting commands is worse."
Bruno let out a low huff of air, but his ears perked up slightly forward instead of being pinned flat against his skull.
From the doorway, Bianca scoffed quietly. "She's talking to a beast as if he were a toddler. How utterly pathetic."
Matteo didn't turn to Bianca. He raised a single finger, and Leo instantly stepped closer to Bianca, guiding her backward down the corridor with a polite, absolute firmness that left no room for argument. Bianca muttered an indignant protest, but the heavy oak doors clicked shut, leaving Clara alone with the mafia boss and his dog.
"You don't use treats?" Matteo asked, breaking the silence. His tone wasn't mocking now; it held a trace of genuine curiosity.
"Treats are bribes," Clara said, keeping her eyes on Bruno as she slowly reached for a thick, dry cotton towel. "They work for a minute, but they don't build trust. If he thinks I only care about him when I have a piece of dried liver, the second I'm empty-handed, he'll go back to guessing what I might do to him."
"And what do you think you are doing to him?"
"Drying him off before his joints lock up in this damp air," Clara said simply.
She began with a slow, rhythmic motion, taking the corner of the towel and gently rubbing it along Bruno's broad chest, well below his chin where he could see her hands at all times. She spoke in a low, steady cadence, narrating her movements not because the dog understood English syntax, but because the predictable pattern of human speech is universally soothing to anxious animals.
Bruno trembled slightly as the friction of the towel warmed his skin, but his massive weight slowly lowered onto the rubber mat. He released a long, shuddering sigh that seemed to expel hours of tension.
Matteo watched the interaction, his gaze tracking the way Clara’s fingers carefully avoided the sensitive scar tissue near the dog's left hip—the very injury the estate veterinarian had muttered about earlier that morning. A muscle ticked along Matteo's jawline. He had paid tens of thousands of dollars for professional trainers, handlers, and groomers, all of whom treated Bruno like a loaded weapon with a safety catch. None of them had ever looked past the teeth to notice the animal's physical pain.
"Where did you learn that?" Matteo asked quietly, stepping two paces further into the room, his boots making a soft thud against the tile.
"My father trained hunting retrievers," Clara said, her voice tightening just a fraction as old memories flickered behind her eyes. "Before... before everything changed. He taught me that animals don't obey out of malice or loyalty. They react to the environment you build around them. If you build a cage of fear, they will eventually try to break it open."
A heavy silence settled over the room. Matteo didn't ask about her father, and Clara certainly didn't volunteer anything further. But as she finished drying Bruno's massive neck and moved down his powerful flank, she felt Matteo's gaze lingering on her profile. It wasn't the predatory stare of a mob boss sizing up an asset or an enemy; it was the intense, analytical look of a man who spent his entire life cataloging details that everyone else missed.
"You move differently today than you did six days ago," Matteo observed, leaning his shoulder against the white-tiled wall.
"Six days ago, I was trying not to get noticed," Clara replied honestly, her hands moving in smooth circles along Bruno's warm fur. "I thought if I kept my head down, scrubbed the floors hard enough, and never spoke out of turn, I could survive this job and save enough money to get my life back."
"And today?"
Clara paused. She looked up, meeting Matteo's slate-gray eyes directly. For a woman standing in a wet maid's uniform, soaked in soapy water and dog hair, her spine was remarkably straight.
"Today, I realized that keeping my head down just makes it easier for people to walk all over me," she said steadily. "Whether it's Bianca, or the head housekeeper, or... anyone else."
Matteo held her gaze for three long seconds. A flicker of something dark and dangerous danced in his eyes, quickly replaced by a strange, quiet approval.
"You survived six days in my house without breaking," Matteo said, his voice dropping into a register that sent a shiver down Clara's spine. "Most don't last forty-eight hours before they quit out of terror or get dismissed for incompetence."
"I don't quit," Clara whispered. I couldn't afford to, she added silently.
Bruno let out a contented rumble, his heavy head resting squarely across Clara's lap, pinning her in place. The massive dog was completely relaxed, breathing deeply and evenly.
May you like
Matteo pushed off the wall. He reached into his coat pocket, withdrew a clean, crisp linen handkerchief, and extended it toward her. Clara hesitated before taking it, her fingers brushing against his. His skin was warm, contrasting sharply with the freezing winter weather outside.
"Clean your face, Clara," Matteo instructed quietly. "Then report to the main study. It appears we have several matters to discuss regarding your future duties on this estate."
