Chapter 4 - The Price of Pride
The following morning broke gray and humid over the Atlantic.
By eight o’clock, Madeline had managed what the estate’s staff whispered had not happened in over a year: she had all three Valenti children sitting at the massive kitchen island, eating homemade pancakes from scratch.
Mrs. Gable, the elderly housekeeper who had served the Valenti family for three decades, stood in the corner clutching a tea towel, watching with disbelief.
“Master Leo hasn't eaten solid food before noon in six months,” Mrs. Gable whispered to Madeline as she refilled the boy's orange juice. “He usually throws the plates at the wall.”
“He was bored, not broken,” Madeline replied quietly, sliding a plate decorated with blueberry smiley faces toward Leo.
Leo glared at the plate, then looked up at Madeline. “I hate blueberries.”
“Then eat around them,” Madeline said without missing a beat, turning back to the stove. “Or starve until lunch. But you don't leave this counter until you finish your milk.”
Leo’s mouth dropped open. He looked to his older brother for backup, but Dante was quietly watching Madeline, his brow furrowed in deep suspicion. Dante took a small bite of his pancake, chewed deliberately, and said nothing.
The heavy kitchen doors swung open, and Adrian strode in. He was dressed in a pristine charcoal suit, looking completely refreshed, as if he hadn't spent the previous midnight executing rival hitmen on his lawn.
Behind him walked a tall, impossibly sleek man in an immaculate Italian cut: Lucian Valenti, Adrian’s younger cousin and the syndicate's chief financial officer. Lucian had sharp, fox-like features and eyes that calculated the monetary value of everything they touched.
“I told you, Adrian, the docks in Brooklyn are hemorrhaging money,” Lucian was saying, adjusting his gold cufflinks. “If we don't renegotiate with the Vance Syndicate, our supply lines are dead by Friday.”
At the mention of the name *Vance*, Madeline’s hand jerked, nearly dropping the spatula.
A cold stone dropped into the pit of her stomach. *Julian Vance.*
It couldn't be. Julian was a Wall Street hedge fund manager—or at least, that was the lie he had fed her three years ago before he drained her savings, dumped her on the street, and told her she was a fat, pathetic embarrassment who would never amount to anything.
Adrian stopped at the end of the counter. His gaze swept over the peaceful scene—his children eating quietly, Mia smiling shyly at Madeline from her high stool.
“The Vance family doesn't dictate terms to me,” Adrian said coldly to Lucian, though his eyes never left Madeline. He noticed the sudden pale cast of her skin, the slight tremor in her hands.
“Is something wrong, Miss Brooks?” Adrian asked, his voice cutting through the kitchen's warm aroma.
“No, Mr. Valenti,” Madeline said quickly, turning off the burner. “Everything is fine.”
Before Adrian could press further, the grand front doorbell echoed through the house, followed by the clicking sound of heels on marble.
Cassandra Sterling entered the kitchen uninvited, accompanied by a waft of expensive French perfume. She wore a cream Chanel suit and oversized sunglasses, looking down her slender nose at the kitchen staff.
“Adrian, sweetheart, I heard about the dreadful incident last night,” Cassandra purred, walking straight toward him and placing a manicured hand on his lapel. “I brought over my family’s private security chief to consult. We simply cannot have your children exposed to such barbarian behavior.”
Adrian peeled Cassandra’s hand off his coat with two fingers, his expression bored. “My security is handled, Cassandra.”
Cassandra’s gaze drifted past him, landing on Madeline. Her upper lip curled into a sneer of utter contempt.
“I see the help is still here,” Cassandra chuckled maliciously. “Tell me, Miss Brooks, does the uniform come in sizes that actually fit, or did you have to sew two bedsheets together this morning?”
Leo slammed his fork down. “Shut up, lady!”
“Leo,” Adrian commanded softly, though his eyes darkened like storm clouds.
Madeline didn't shrink. Over the years, cruelty had forged a steel spine beneath her gentle exterior. She wiped her hands on a kitchen cloth and looked Cassandra dead in the eye.
“A dress can be tailored, Miss Sterling,” Madeline said, her voice smooth and entirely composed. “Character, unfortunately, cannot. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m serving breakfast to the family. Outsiders wait in the parlor.”
Cassandra gasped, turning red. “How dare you! Adrian, are you going to let this obese servant speak to your future wife that way?”
“You are not my future wife, Cassandra,” Adrian said, his voice dropping into a register that made the air in the room turn icy. “And Miss Brooks is an employee of this household. Which means, while she is under my roof, disrespecting her is an insult to my authority. Leave.”
Cassandra’s mouth worked soundlessly for three seconds before she grabbed her designer handbag and stormed out of the kitchen, her heels clacking furiously against the marble floor.
Lucian let out a dry, humorless chuckle. “Dangerous game, cousin. The Sterling family funds twenty percent of our transatlantic fleet.”
“I don't care,” Adrian said, turning his piercing gaze entirely onto Madeline. He took three long strides toward her, cornering her against the kitchen counter.
Up close, his presence was overwhelming. The raw power of the man seemed to pull the oxygen from her lungs.
“You’re hiding something, Miss Brooks,” Adrian murmured, his voice low enough that only she could hear. “When Lucian mentioned the Vance family, your pulse jumped in your throat. Who is Julian Vance to you?”
Madeline swallowed hard, the ghost of her painful past slamming into the dangerous reality of her present.
Before she could answer, her personal cell phone buzzed in the pocket of her apron.
She pulled it out against her better judgment. A single text message glowed on the screen from an unknown number:
May you like
*I saw you at the Valenti estate, Maddy. You look just as pathetic as the day I left you. Work for me, give me Valenti’s shipping routes, or I’ll tell the Don that you were sent to kill his children.*
***
