Chapter 3 - The Woman in Red
Bianca DeLuca arrived wearing red.
Of course she did.
Chloe watched through the dining room doorway while two men removed Bianca’s white winter coat.
Beneath it was a crimson dress elegant enough to belong on a magazine cover.
She was beautiful.
Not merely pretty.
Beautiful in the controlled, expensive way wealthy women often seemed to be.
Perfect blond hair.
Perfect posture.
Diamond earrings that probably cost more than Chloe’s apartment building.
Beside her walked Carlo DeLuca, sixty-two, silver-haired and smiling.
Victor entered from the opposite side of the room.
Black suit.
No tie.
Expression unreadable.
Carlo opened his arms.
“Victor.”
They shook hands.
Bianca kissed Victor’s cheek.
Chloe looked away.
Mrs. Gable appeared beside her.
“Kitchen.”
“I’m going.”
“You were staring.”
“I was observing.”
“Observe the soup.”
Chloe disappeared.
Dinner lasted ninety minutes.
Chloe knew because she checked the clock approximately forty times.
She hated herself for caring.
Victor Russo owed her nothing.
He was her employer.
A dangerous man.
A man whose life existed so far from hers that comparing them was ridiculous.
Still, when Mrs. Gable asked Chloe to refresh the library after dinner, Chloe found herself listening when voices approached.
“You need this alliance,” Carlo said.
Victor’s reply was calm.
“I need reliable shipping contracts.”
“You need both.”
“I disagree.”
“Bellini is expanding east. You think he won’t challenge your routes?”
“He already has.”
“And if our families unite, he won’t.”
Silence.
Then Bianca spoke.
“You make me sound like a freight agreement.”
Victor answered, “I told your father that was exactly why this would never happen.”
Chloe froze behind the bookshelf.
Carlo’s voice hardened.
“You insult my daughter.”
“No. I refuse to marry her.”
“Same difference.”
“Not to your daughter.”
Bianca surprised Chloe by laughing.
“My father is offended because nobody has ever said no to him.”
“Neither have many people said it to me.”
“That might be why I like you.”
Victor sighed.
“Bianca.”
“I know.”
Her tone softened.
“I’m not in love with you.”
“Good.”
“But marriage between us would solve problems.”
“And create others.”
“What others?”
Victor did not answer.
Chloe held her breath.
Carlo said, “There is someone else?”
“No.”
The word came quickly.
Too quickly.
Chloe’s stomach tightened.
Then footsteps approached the library.
She moved fast, grabbed a stack of books, and turned.
Victor entered first.
He stopped when he saw her.
Their eyes met.
Behind him, Bianca noticed.
Women like Bianca probably noticed everything.
“House staff?” she asked.
Victor’s expression returned to neutral.
“Chloe Bennett.”
Chloe almost dropped the books.
Bianca looked amused.
“You know your housekeepers by name?”
“I know everyone working under my roof.”
That was probably true.
It still felt personal.
Chloe nodded politely.
“Good evening.”
Bianca smiled.
“Good evening, Chloe.”
Victor watched Chloe leave.
Bianca waited three seconds.
Then said, “Oh.”
Victor looked at her.
“Oh what?”
“Nothing.”
“Bianca.”
She accepted a glass of whiskey.
“I understand now.”
“There is nothing to understand.”
“The famous Victor Russo lying.”
“I’m not lying.”
“You looked at that woman like she was carrying the oxygen supply.”
Victor’s eyes turned cold.
“Careful.”
Bianca’s smile disappeared.
Not because she was frightened.
Because she understood.
“Does she know?”
“There is nothing to know.”
“Then you are in far more trouble than I thought.”
Victor walked away.
At eleven thirty, the DeLucas left.
At midnight, Victor was still awake.
At one, he opened the agricultural tax book he had pretended to want earlier.
It was exactly as terrible as Chloe had implied.
At one forty-five, he threw it aside.
At two ten, someone knocked.
Nobody knocked on Victor’s bedroom door at two ten in the morning.
His hand moved toward the weapon on the nightstand.
“Who?”
“Chloe.”
His hand stopped.
He opened the door.
She stood in the hallway carrying folded towels.
Victor looked at them.
“Towels.”
“Yes.”
“At two in the morning.”
“The linen closet is down the hall.”
“It has been there for twelve years.”
Chloe’s cheeks warmed.
“Are you interrogating me about towels?”
“Yes.”
She shifted the stack.
“Fine. I wanted to make sure you were sleeping.”
Victor stared at her.
“Why?”
“Because you look exhausted.”
“I’m always exhausted.”
“I noticed.”
“You notice too much.”
“I clean your house.”
“That explanation is becoming suspiciously convenient.”
Chloe smiled.
Then it faded.
“Are you marrying her?”
The question escaped before she could stop it.
Both froze.
Chloe closed her eyes.
“I’m sorry.”
Victor leaned against the doorframe.
“For what?”
“That was wildly inappropriate.”
“Yes.”
“I’ll go.”
“No.”
She looked up.
Victor’s voice lowered.
“I’m not marrying Bianca.”
Chloe hated how relieved she felt.
“She seems nice.”
“She is.”
“And beautiful.”
“Yes.”
“And rich.”
“Yes.”
“And probably not known for accidentally sleeping in employees’ beds.”
Victor’s mouth moved.
“Employers’ beds.”
“That is not an improvement.”
He almost laughed.
Chloe started walking away.
“Good night.”
“Chloe.”
She turned.
Victor hesitated.
“Sit with me.”
Her expression changed.
“What?”
“Not in the bed.”
“That clarification is reassuring.”
He gestured toward the sitting room beyond his bedroom.
“There.”
Chloe should have refused.
Instead, she entered.
Victor poured tea.
They sat opposite each other.
For a while, neither spoke.
Then Chloe asked, “Why don’t you sleep?”
Victor looked toward the windows.
“You always ask questions you’ve been told not to ask.”
“You could tell me to leave.”
He considered it.
“My father died when I was twenty-three.”
Chloe said nothing.
“My brother died three years later.”
“How?”
Victor’s eyes returned to hers.
“You already know what people say about me.”
“Yes.”
“What do they say?”
Chloe hesitated.
“That you’re dangerous.”
“Accurate.”
“That you control things the police can’t.”
“Sometimes.”
“That men who betray you disappear.”
Victor’s expression did not change.
“People exaggerate.”
“That isn’t a denial.”
“No.”
Chloe swallowed.
Victor continued.
“My father trusted the wrong person. My brother did too. After enough funerals, sleep becomes difficult.”
The simplicity of the statement hurt more than details would have.
Chloe whispered, “I’m sorry.”
Victor shrugged.
“Don’t be.”
“Why?”
“Pity is useless.”
“Compassion isn’t pity.”
His eyes narrowed.
“Difference?”
“Pity looks down at someone. Compassion sits beside them.”
Victor stared at her.
Nobody spoke to him like this.
Maybe because nobody dared.
Maybe because everyone else wanted something.
Chloe wanted nothing.
Or at least nothing from him.
“You sat beside me,” he said.
She blinked.
“When?”
“The night you fell asleep.”
“I was unconscious.”
“Still counts.”
Chloe laughed softly.
Victor looked toward the couch.
“Stay until I fall asleep.”
Her laugh disappeared.
“Victor…”
It was the first time she had used his name.
Something passed between them.
He felt it.
So did she.
Victor spoke carefully.
“I’m not asking you to share my bed.”
“I know.”
“I’m asking because…”
He stopped.
Because what?
Because the sound of her breathing had silenced memories that whiskey, medication, work, and exhaustion never could?
Because five hours beside her had felt safer than five years alone?
Victor Russo hated needing anything.
Especially another human being.
Chloe understood before he finished.
“Okay.”
She settled into the armchair.
Victor lay on top of the comforter.
Three minutes passed.
“Chloe?”
“Yes?”
“If anyone discovers this—”
“They’ll assume their feared boss needs bedtime supervision?”
He opened one eye.
“Exactly.”
“Your reputation would never recover.”
“Good night.”
She smiled.
“Good night.”
Twenty minutes later, his breathing changed.
Slow.
Deep.
Peaceful.
Chloe watched him.
The most feared man she had ever met looked younger asleep.
Less guarded.
She wondered how many years he had spent protecting himself from everyone.
Then Chloe noticed the photograph half-hidden inside the drawer of his nightstand.
Two young men stood beside an older man near Lake Michigan.
Victor.
His brother.
His father.
All smiling.
Chloe looked back at him.
The monster people whispered about had once been a boy who smiled in photographs.
Something inside her shifted.
At three fifteen, Chloe stood to leave.
Victor’s eyes opened immediately.
“Where are you going?”
She stopped.
“You were asleep.”
“You moved.”
“You noticed while sleeping?”
“Yes.”
Chloe stared at him.
Victor seemed equally disturbed by the answer.
She sat back down.
“Fine.”
His eyes closed.
This time, Chloe stayed until sunrise.
Neither realized that, outside the estate gates, a black sedan had been parked across the road for nearly an hour.
Inside it, a man photographed Chloe leaving Victor’s private wing.
May you like
The photograph was sent to Matteo Bellini with one sentence.
Russo finally has a weakness.
