Chapter 2 - The Rules of the Ferrante House
The garden path narrowed between high boxwood hedges that smelled intensely of wet earth and winter survival.
Willow’s heart slammed against her ribs like a trapped bird. Her breath hitched, catching painfully in her throat as she looked up.
She had seen him in photographs circulated among the staff—framed in leather on the back office desk, mentioned in hushed whispers by the head housekeeper, Mrs. Gable—but pictures did not capture the sheer gravity of Veto Ferrante in person. He was tall, broad-shouldered, dressed in an impeccably tailored charcoal suit that seemed entirely unbothered by the mist. His dark hair was silvering slightly at the temples, and his eyes were the color of cold river water under ice.
She knew the rules of the Ferrante estate.
Rule one: You do not exist unless spoken to.Rule two: You see nothing, you hear nothing, you repeat nothing.Rule three: If you are an inconvenience, you disappear.
And here she was, red-eyed, heavily pregnant, and sobbing behind the garbage bins like a broken vagrant.
“Mr. Ferrante,” she choked out, scrambling to her feet despite her weak knees and pressing herself flat against the damp limestone wall. “I’m—I’m so sorry. I was just taking a five-minute break. The north wing floors took three passes because the delivery trucks tracked mud, and I felt dizzy, I swear to God I wasn't shirking my duties—”
She stopped babbling because she saw that he wasn’t looking at her uniform. He wasn’t looking at the trash cans.
His eyes were fixed entirely on her hands, which were still instinctively shielding her stomach.
“What is your name?” Veto asked. His voice was a low, resonant baritone that didn't need to be raised to command the entire courtyard. It was the voice of a man who gave orders that altered the geography of the city.
“Willow,” she whispered, her chin trembling. “Willow Whitlock. Third-floor domestic staff. I’ve only been here three weeks, Mr. Ferrante. If you fire me, I—please, I won't cause any trouble. I’ll pack my things tonight.”
Veto didn't answer immediately. He slowly stepped closer, the massive black mastiff trotting faithfully at his heel, its dark eyes shifting between Willow and the master with vigilant loyalty. Bruno didn't growl; instead, the dog let out a soft, low huff of breath and nudged his heavy snout against Willow’s damp apron pocket.
Willow froze, terrified the dog would bite her protruding stomach. But Bruno only stood guard, creating an unspoken barrier between her and the cold gravel path.
“Three weeks,” Veto repeated quietly, tasting the words as if evaluating their utility. “Mrs. Gable usually hires girls from agencies in the Loop. You don’t look like an agency girl.”
“I’m not,” Willow said, her defensive pride momentarily overriding her terror. “The agency rejected me when they saw the ultrasound. I lied on the second interview. I needed the room and board. I needed a roof that wouldn't leak onto my face when it rained.”
“You lied to my administrative staff,” Veto stated, though there was no heat in his tone. Only a strange, calculating curiosity.
“People lie when the truth is a death sentence,” Willow fired back before she could stop herself. The exhaustion and the despair of the past five months had worn away her filter. She expected him to snap his fingers, summon his security detail, and throw her out into the Chicago night.
Instead, a flicker of something dark and unrecognizable crossed Veto’s face—something that looked remarkably like amusement mixed with profound weariness.
“A death sentence,” Veto murmured. He turned his head slightly, looking toward the sprawling, gothic architecture of the main house, where yellow lights burned behind tall stained-glass windows. “That is a dramatic phrase for a housekeeping contract, Miss Whitlock.”
“You don’t know what it’s like,” Willow said bitterly, hot tears spilling over her lashes again despite her best efforts to stop them. “To carry something that the whole world wants you to erase. Every doorway is too narrow. Every boss looks at you like you’re a liability waiting to happen. I didn't ask for any of this. I just wanted to work.”
Veto looked at her for a long, agonizing moment. The wind rustled the high oak trees above them, dropping a shower of cold raindrops onto their shoulders.
“Go inside,” Veto said flatly, turning his back on her and walking a few paces down the path.
Willow blinked, her heart sinking. “Sir?”
“Mrs. Gable has quarters on the third-floor annex,” Veto said without turning around. “Tell her to move you to the west suite. It has better heating and an attached bath.”
May you like
Willow stared at the broad back of the most feared man in Illinois, completely paralyzed. “I... what?”
“You are a terrible maid, Willow Whitlock,” Veto said coldly, his voice cutting through the mist. “Your floors are acceptable, but your hiding spots are amateurish. If you are going to cry on my property, do it somewhere with proper ventilation. It’s bad for the roses.”
