Chapter 2 - THE BOSS'S FIRST ORDER
Nobody moved.
The silence in the Moretti dining room had become so complete that Meline could hear rain ticking against the tall windows. A kitchen porter stared at his shoes. One of the footmen suddenly found the silverware fascinating. Beatrice stood with her hands clasped at her waist, her expression arranged into the wounded dignity of someone who had spent years believing that an apology was something other people owed her.
Alessandro Moretti waited.
He was not a man who needed to raise his voice to command attention. His reputation had traveled through the estate long before he had. Employees spoke of his business empire, his ruthless negotiations, and the security men who accompanied him everywhere. Some whispered about the other side of his fortune, the organization that had made the Moretti name feared in Chicago.
Meline had never wanted to know whether those whispers were true.
She only wanted to keep her job.
Finally, a young dishwasher named Peter stepped forward.
“I saw what happened, sir.”
Beatrice turned toward him so sharply that he flinched.
“And did you see me attack her?” she demanded. “Or did you see me trying to prevent another ridiculous incident?”
Peter swallowed.
“I saw you knock the tray down. Then you pushed her.”
“That is enough,” Alessandro said.
Two words. No shouting. No discussion.
Beatrice closed her mouth.
Alessandro removed his coat and handed it to one of his security men. Then he looked at Meline's soaked apron.
“Get her a chair.”
“I'm fine,” Meline said quickly.
His eyes settled on her face.
“You're shaking.”
“Because the soup was hot.”
It was an honest answer, but it came out sharper than she intended. A few employees looked at her in alarm.
Alessandro studied her for a moment. Then, unexpectedly, one corner of his mouth moved.
“Good. You can still tell the truth when you're frightened.”
He turned toward Giovanni.
“Why were you outside in the rain?”
“Because the front entrance has become a monument to your employees' manners.”
“Dad.”
“I wanted a walk.”
“You have a driver.”
“I wanted a walk, Alessandro. Not an escort and six people asking where I was going.”
Alessandro's jaw tightened. Meline saw something beneath his anger that surprised her: worry.
He looked at his father more carefully, noticing the damp shoulders of his jacket, the trembling fingers around the walking stick, and the untouched place setting near the window.
Then he turned back to Beatrice.
“Explain.”
The housekeeper drew a breath.
“Mr. Giovanni came into the dining room without permission. Miss Pierce took it upon herself to serve him. I was attempting to enforce household procedure. The bowl slipped, and she fell.”
Giovanni gave a short, humorless laugh.
“I must have imagined your hand around her arm.”
“Sir, I would never—”
“Enough,” Alessandro interrupted.
He looked toward Peter.
“Was my father offered a proper meal?”
“No, sir. I heard Mrs. Beatrice say the kitchen was too busy.”
“And was it?”
Peter hesitated.
“No, sir.”
Alessandro nodded once.
“Thank you. Go back to work.”
Peter retreated, visibly relieved.
Alessandro then addressed the room.
“Anyone who witnessed this incident may speak privately with my security chief. No one will be punished for telling the truth. Anyone who lies to protect another employee will answer for that decision.”
His gaze returned to Beatrice.
“Effective immediately, you're relieved of your duties pending an investigation.”
Her composure cracked.
“You cannot be serious. I've managed this household for twelve years.”
“Then you should understand better than anyone that a household reflects the people who run it.”
“My record is impeccable.”
“Your record will be reviewed.”
She looked at Meline, and the hatred in her eyes was so naked that Meline instinctively stepped back.
“This girl has manipulated you,” Beatrice said. “She knows exactly how to make herself look helpless. Women like her always—”
“Finish that sentence,” Alessandro said quietly.
Beatrice stopped.
He stepped closer.
“You may dislike an employee. You may disagree with a decision. But you will never use my father's age or a woman's appearance as an excuse to humiliate them in my house.”
Meline felt heat rise to her cheeks.
She was accustomed to being described as too large, too emotional, too awkward, or too soft for rooms filled with expensive things. She had learned to turn insults into jokes before anyone could see them hurt.
Hearing Alessandro defend her should have felt satisfying.
Instead, it made her uneasy.
Powerful men rarely intervened without expecting something in return.
“Mr. Moretti,” she said, “I don't want anyone fired because of me.”
Alessandro looked at her.
“Did you ask her to push you?”
“No.”
“Did you deserve it?”
“No.”
“Then you aren't responsible for the consequences of her choices.”
He said it as if the matter were settled.
Giovanni reached for Meline's hand.
“Come sit with me, sweetheart. Your knees must hurt.”
She sat beside him, careful not to disturb the broken porcelain. An employee brought a clean towel and a fresh bowl of soup. This time, nobody objected when Meline placed it before Giovanni.
The old man looked at her.
“Tell me something. Why did you help me?”
“Because you were cold.”
“You didn't know who I was.”
“I still don't know much about you.”
Giovanni smiled.
“That's probably why I like you.”
For the first time since entering the room, Alessandro seemed uncertain what to do. He watched his father accept the soup, then watched Meline adjust the napkin beneath the bowl so it wouldn't slide.
It was such a small gesture that nobody else noticed.
He did.
Then Giovanni spoke again.
“Alessandro, I want her assigned to my personal care.”
Meline nearly dropped the spoon.
“Sir, I'm a housemaid. I don't have medical training.”
“I need someone who knows how to listen, not someone who treats me like a cracked vase.”
Alessandro frowned.
“Dad, we can arrange a professional caregiver.”
“And I can dismiss one whenever I please. I want Meline.”
The old man's voice was gentle, but his eyes were firm.
Meline looked from father to son.
“I need to be paid for my regular work,” she said carefully. “And I need to know my responsibilities. I can't be responsible for medical decisions.”
“Reasonable,” Alessandro replied.
He turned toward his security chief.
“Arrange a temporary transfer. Give her a written job description, a salary adjustment, and access to whatever training she needs.”
Meline blinked.
She had expected a reprimand, perhaps a warning about household rules.
She had not expected her life to change in the space of ten minutes.
But as Alessandro turned to leave, Giovanni caught his wrist.
“One more thing.”
“What?”
“Find out why I was given crackers while this house prepared a feast.”
For the first time, Alessandro's expression changed in a way that had nothing to do with anger.
He looked toward the kitchen corridor.
“I'm going to find out.”
That afternoon, Meline returned to her small room above the garage and discovered that someone had entered it.
Her drawers were open. Her suitcase had been pulled from beneath the bed. The envelope containing her grandfather's final bills lay torn on the floor.
And on her pillow sat a single black button from a man's coat.
May you like
Beneath it was a note.
Stop asking questions about the old man, or you'll leave this estate in an ambulance.
