Chapter 3 - The Price of Cruelty
Victoria Whitaker gasped, taking a step toward her daughter, but Marco smoothly shifted his heavy frame into her path. He didn't raise a hand, but the sheer presence of the broad-shouldered security chief was enough to make both of Camille’s parents back away in terror.
“Gabriel, please,” Arthur Whitaker stammered, his voice thin and cracking. “She made a mistake! She’s young, she was under stress with the wedding planning—we can compensate the girl! We’ll write a check! Five thousand, ten thousand dollars—whatever it takes!”
Gabriel turned his head slowly toward Arthur. The cold contempt in his dark eyes made the older man lock his jaw shut.
“A check?” Gabriel asked smoothly. “You think you can buy a pass for your daughter’s sadism with a check?”
“It was an incident with staff!” Arthur yelled, losing his composure. “People like us don't ruin lives over staff!”
“People like you,” Gabriel corrected, his voice dropping an octave, “are alive in this city only because people like me allow it. Marco, show Mr. and Mrs. Whitaker to the service elevator. If they utter another word, revoke their family’s line of credit with our import firm by midnight.”
Arthur’s face went gray. His family’s high-society lifestyle was entirely underwritten by a silent partnership with Moretti Enterprises. If Gabriel pulled that funding, the Whitakers would be bankrupt within a month. Without another word, Arthur grabbed his wife’s arm and practically dragged her out through the side doors, leaving their daughter standing alone in the center of the grand room.
Camille stood frozen near the head of the table. The champagne silk dress that had looked so elegant an hour ago now seemed like a ridiculous costume. The remaining dinner guests—a powerful city councilman, a prominent real estate mogul, and their wives—sat frozen in their chairs, terrified to move without permission.
“The rest of you,” Gabriel said, glancing at the guests. “The front doors are unlocked for you. Forget what you saw tonight, or I will ensure the press receives detailed accounting files regarding your off-shore holdings.”
The guests didn't need to be told twice. They stood up in unison, abandoning their silk wraps and half-eaten dinners, and practically scrambled out the front foyer.
Within two minutes, the grand dining room was silent, except for the quiet, ragged breathing of Elena and the hum of the crystal chandelier.
Gabriel walked over to the table, picked up his glass of untouched bourbon, and took a slow, deliberate sip. He stood near his discarded black titanium ring, looking at Camille.
“You’re going to regret this, Gabriel,” Camille whispered, her voice shaking with a dangerous mixture of humiliation and fury. “My family has influence. The social boards, the charity networks—I will tell everyone in this city what you did to me tonight. I’ll ruin you.”
“You won't tell anyone anything,” Gabriel replied calmly. “Because if you say one word about this night, the video from the west hallway—along with the hospital records of every burn and bruise you inflicted on Elena over the last three months—will be delivered directly to the District Attorney and the Chicago Tribune.”
Camille’s eyes went wide. “You wouldn't.”
“Try me,” Gabriel said softly. “You wanted to know what real power looks like, Camille? It isn't throwing hot tea at someone who can't hit you back. It’s having the ability to erase your entire life with a single phone call, and choosing instead to let you walk away with nothing.”
He set his glass down. “Your bags are already packed. Marco’s men loaded them into a cab ten minutes ago. Get out of my house.”
Camille stared at him, her lips trembling, her pride completely shattered in front of the empty chairs and stained tablecloth. She looked at Elena, who was sitting quietly on a wooden chair near the sideboard as Dr. Levin—who had just arrived quietly through the medical entrance—began examining her burned arm.
Camille turned on her high heels and rushed out of the room, her crying echoing down the long, marble hallway until the heavy front doors slammed shut behind her.
The room fell quiet again.
Gabriel walked over to where Dr. Levin was applying a cooling gel to Elena’s forearm. The burn was severe, blistering red, but the doctor assured Gabriel it wouldn't leave a permanent scar if cared for properly.
“Thank you, Dr. Levin,” Gabriel said. He looked down at Elena. “I’m taking you to the private wing of St. Jude’s Hospital tonight. You need proper rest, and you won't spend another night in the staff quarters.”
Elena looked up at him, her eyes wide with shock. “Mr. Moretti... I can’t go to a private hospital. I don't have the money for that, and... and I’m just the housekeeper. I need to clean up the table—”
“Elena,” Gabriel interrupted gently, his tone firmer than before. “You are no longer the housekeeper.”
Elena blinked, fresh tears welling in her eyes. “Are... are you firing me, sir?”
May you like
Gabriel reached down, taking her uninjured hand in his, his large, warm fingers wrapping gently around her trembling ones.
“No,” Gabriel said softly, looking into her eyes with a seriousness that made her heart skip a beat. “I am protecting you. From this moment on, you work directly for me. Not as staff. As my personal charge. And no one in this house, or this city, will ever raise a hand to you again.”
