Chapter 3 - The Price of His Protection
By sunrise, every entrance to the Russo estate had an armed guard.
Clara knew none of that when she woke in a bed softer than anything she had ever owned.
For several seconds, she couldn't remember where she was.
Then she saw the pale blue walls, the marble fireplace, and the folded charcoal jacket on the chair.
Maximilian's jacket.
Her hand moved instinctively to her stomach.
The baby shifted beneath her palm.
“Good morning, little one,” she whispered.
A knock interrupted her.
“Come in.”
An older woman entered carrying breakfast.
Her silver hair was pulled into a neat bun, and her expression was warm.
“I'm Teresa. I've worked for this family for thirty years.”
Clara sat up.
“I'm sorry. I should be helping you.”
Teresa smiled.
“Mr. Russo gave very specific instructions.”
Clara's stomach tightened.
“What instructions?”
“That you are to eat breakfast, see the doctor, and stop apologizing for existing.”
Despite herself, Clara laughed.
It was the first time she had laughed in days.
Teresa set the tray beside her.
“There's something else.”
She handed Clara a small envelope.
Inside was a hospital billing statement.
Her father's overdue balance had been paid.
Every dollar.
Clara stared at the document.
“No.”
Teresa's smile faded.
“Miss Jenkins?”
“No, he can't do this.”
She pushed the blankets aside.
“Where is Mr. Russo?”
“Downstairs.”
Clara was already moving.
She found Maximilian in his private study, standing before a wall of windows with a phone against his ear.
He ended the call when he saw her.
“Good morning.”
She held up the statement.
“What is this?”
He glanced at it.
“Your father's hospital account.”
“You paid it?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because he needs treatment.”
Clara stared at him.
“That's not an answer.”
Maximilian studied her.
Most people thanked him when he handed them money.
Others begged for more.
Clara looked offended.
“It's not charity,” he said.
“Then what is it?”
“Something I should have done sooner.”
“You didn't know me.”
“I know you now.”
She shook her head.
“You can't buy your way into my life.”
His expression shifted.
“I wasn't trying to.”
“Then why didn't you ask?”
The question struck harder than she intended.
Maximilian walked behind his desk.
For a moment, she thought he was dismissing her.
Instead, he took out a folder.
“Your father was transferred to Northwestern after complications from a workplace accident. His insurance carrier denied a significant portion of the claim.”
Clara stared.
“How do you know that?”
“I had my attorney review the bills.”
“Without asking me?”
“Yes.”
“That's not okay.”
Maximilian went silent.
She could see he wasn't accustomed to being challenged.
Especially not by a woman wearing borrowed slippers.
Finally, he said, “You're right.”
Clara blinked.
“I am?”
“Yes.”
He closed the folder.
“I should have asked.”
She didn't know what to do with that answer.
Maximilian stepped around the desk.
“The payment is unconditional. You don't owe me anything.”
“Not even because of the baby?”
“Especially not because of the baby.”
She lowered the statement.
Her voice softened.
“Thank you.”
Before he could respond, Marco Bellini entered.
“Boss. We found the photographer.”
Maximilian's expression changed instantly.
“Where?”
“An abandoned warehouse near the harbor.”
“Alive?”
“Barely.”
Clara went cold.
Maximilian glanced at her.
“Wait outside, Marco.”
Marco hesitated.
“It's urgent.”
“Outside.”
The door closed.
Clara looked at Maximilian.
“Something happened.”
“Yes.”
“Is it about me?”
He didn't answer quickly enough.
She understood.
“Someone knows about the baby.”
Maximilian's silence confirmed it.
Her face went white.
“Was it the Morettis?”
“We're investigating.”
“My father owed them money.”
“I know.”
“No, you don't understand.”
Her breathing quickened.
“He borrowed from a man named Anthony Moretti after my mother died. It was supposed to cover surgery and rent.”
Maximilian's eyes narrowed.
“Anthony Moretti?”
“Yes.”
“How much?”
“Forty thousand dollars.”
“Your father owed forty thousand?”
“At first.”
Clara swallowed.
“Then it became almost two hundred thousand.”
Maximilian looked toward the window.
Anthony Moretti was not a minor collector.
He was the younger brother of Lorenzo Moretti, Maximilian's most dangerous rival.
“Did Anthony ever approach you?”
Clara hesitated.
That hesitation told Maximilian everything.
“Clara.”
“He came to my apartment in New York.”
“When?”
“Last spring.”
“What did he want?”
“He said my father's debt could disappear if I helped him.”
Maximilian's expression became frighteningly still.
“Helped him do what?”
“He wanted me to get a job at a private hotel event.”
“The St. Regis?”
Clara nodded.
“I thought he just needed someone on the catering staff.”
Maximilian felt the pieces shift.
The blackout.
The assassination attempt.
The woman who had saved him.
It had never been coincidence.
“Did you know I would be there?”
“No.”
“Did you know what was going to happen?”
Her eyes filled.
“No. I swear.”
He believed her.
But he also understood something she did not.
The Morettis had placed Clara inside the hotel before the assassination attempt.
And somehow, the woman they had positioned near him had become the reason he survived.
Maximilian walked to the door.
“Marco.”
His security chief entered.
“Get me everything on Anthony Moretti's financial operations. And find out who hired the catering staff at the St. Regis that night.”
Marco nodded.
Then looked at Clara.
“Boss, there's another development.”
“What?”
“The photographer had a phone.”
“And?”
“His last outgoing call was to someone inside this house.”
Clara stared at him.
Maximilian's voice dropped.
“Who?”
Marco looked uncomfortable.
“We traced it to the domestic staff's internal line.”
“Which extension?”
Marco swallowed.
“Mrs. Gable's office.”
Clara's knees weakened.
The woman who had watched her every day.
The woman who knew her schedule.
The woman who had nearly discovered her pregnancy.
Maximilian turned toward the door.
“Bring Mrs. Gable to me.”
But Marco did not move.
“Boss…”
“What?”
“We can't.”
Maximilian's eyes narrowed.
“Why not?”
“She's gone.”
A heavy silence settled over the room.
Then Marco added the detail that changed everything.
“She left a letter addressed to Clara.”
Inside the envelope was a single photograph.
It showed Clara's father lying unconscious in his hospital bed.
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Across the bottom, in red ink, someone had written:
ASK MAXIMILIAN WHAT REALLY HAPPENED TO YOUR MOTHER.
