The study door opens without a knock. Only one person would dare.
"I told you to stay in our room," I say without turning, recognizing Emma's jasmine scent mixing with gunpowder residue from my clothes.
"And I told you I'm done hiding," she replies, her voice steady despite the blood decorating my shirt. "Besides, those gunshots woke me. Hard to sleep when you're conducting executions."
She crosses to the desk, her nightgown, my shirt, actually, stolen as usual, whispering against her skin. Three days since the blackmail started, and she's begun transforming from terrified victim to something else entirely. Something that makes my cock stir despite the gravity of our situation.
"You shouldn't see this," I tell her, but I don't move to hide the photos. She needs to understand what we're facing.
Emma studies each image with focused intensity I'm learning to recognize. Her eye catching details I might have missed.
"These are all service areas," she observes, fingers tracing the photos without touching the blood spots I've left on them. "Whoever took these knows how household staff moves. When deliveries arrive. Which doors stay propped open during shift changes."
The truth hits. Fuck. We've been hunting wolves while mice ate through our walls.
The phone rings, cutting through our analysis like a blade. Unknown number. I reach for it, but Emma's hand shoots out faster, her fingers closing around the device before I can stop her.
"Emma, don't—"
She answers anyway, her voice carrying a strength I didn't know she possessed: "You're speaking to Mrs.Rosetti. State your demands."
I freeze. Not Frances. Mrs.Rosetti. She's claiming my name as armor, wielding it like the weapon it is.
"Five million," the distorted voice crackles through the speaker. "The shipping routes through the northern corridor. And your complete submission to our commands, Mrs.Rosetti. Or tomorrow morning, every family in Chicago learns exactly who Emma Pitt is and how she fooled the great Alessandro Rosetti."
My hand finds my gun without thinking, needing the weight of it. The metal's warm from my body heat, familiar as breathing. Unlike the cold terror of imagining her exposed, destroyed by my enemies.
Emma's grip tightens on the phone, but her voice stays level: "You think you can threaten a Rosetti and live?"
The laugh that comes through the speaker makes my blood boil. "I think Alessandro would spare a little cash to protect his precious fake bride. Five million. The routes. Your cooperation. Soon. We're already closer than you think."
The line goes dead.
Emma sets the phone down carefully, like it might explode. Her hands shake slightly. Anger, not fear. When did she start changing?
"Someone close to the business," she says quietly. "They know about the shipping routes. A business rival, probably. Or someone even closer."
She's right. The specific routes, the northern corridor. Only a rival family would know their value. Or our own family. My jaw clenches hard enough to crack teeth.
The study door opens again. Marco enters without ceremony, shoulders tense with controlled violence. He's been hunting tonight too. Blood spots on his collar he didn't bother to clean.
"Two more taken," he says, voice flat. Then: "Someone's been buying information. Six weeks now." He slides financial records across my desk. "Cash. Untraceable."
Six weeks ago. Right around our wedding. Someone's been planning this from the beginning, watching us, waiting for the perfect moment to strike.
Emma steps forward, studying the papers. "The latest deposit was just yesterday. They're being paid for continuing intelligence. Your leak is still active."
Marco's eyes narrow as he truly looks at Emma for the first time tonight. Not as my wife, not as the identity she wears, but as someone with a mind worth consulting. "You understand this?"
She meets his gaze steadily. "I understand how invisible people operate. How they get paid to stay invisible while gathering secrets."
"Wait," she says suddenly, pointing to surveillance timestamps. "Third Wednesday, servants' rotation day. First Monday, when the laundry service comes. I know this pattern. It's how staff creates blind spots. When guards get distracted by pretty maids bringing coffee. When the kitchen entrance props open for garbage runs."
The observation clicks like everything suddenly making sense. I've been thinking like a don when I should have been thinking like Emma. Someone who understands how invisible people move through our world.
"Servant's knowledge," Marco observes, watching Emma with new interest.
"Exactly. Your blackmailer isn't just getting inside help. They understand domestic routines." Her voice carries the authority of lived experience. "I can find them because I know their world. Use me."
