Chapter 1
“DON’T PRETENDyou’re shy now,piccola.”
Tommaso Carbone’s fingers closed around Elia’s wrist as though she were an ornament he’d decided to inspect more closely. The grip wasn’t hard enough to bruise, not in a way anyone could object to, but it was firm enough to remind her that resistance would be noticed.
She didn’t flinch. She’d learned years ago that flinching entertainedthem.
Lorenzo Donati lounged across the velvet sofa, one ankle resting on his knee, crystal glass dangling from his fingers as if he were bored with the entire world. His brother, Dario, leaned against the piano, smirking as though everything in the room existed solely for his amusement. They’d been drinking since midday, and the air in the Donati lounge carried the scent of amber liquor and expensive smoke.
Elia stood between them in a simple black serving dress, hem modest, sleeves plain, the fabric inexpensive but spotless. An apron had been discarded at some point during the evening so she would look less like staff and morelike something decorative. They liked to parade her that way when it suited them, the servant dressed up just enough to confuse the line between household help and possession.
Tommaso tugged her closer. “You’ll miss us when you’re gone, won’t you?”
“I’m not going anywhere,” she insisted.
Dario laughed. “Not yet.”
Lorenzo’s gaze sharpened. “Once the old man’s heart gives out, everything changes.”
They all looked at her then, not as a person, but as an asset waiting to be reallocated.
“Careful,” Dario added lightly, snapping his fingers once as if summoning her closer. “You’re still staff in this house. Kitchen girl, remember?”
Lorenzo crooked two fingers. “My glass. It’s empty.”
Tommaso’s thumb brushed the inside of her wrist in a mockery of affection. “You know what Vittorio Donati says about contracts. They protect what matters.”
“And what is that?” she asked, keeping her toneeven.
“Leverage,” Lorenzo answered, swirling his drink. “Father says there’s always leverage buried somewhere if you know how to look.”
Dario pushed away from the piano. “The Severins think they’re untouchable. Arrogant. They’ll sign anything if it fattenstheir pockets.”
Tommaso grinned. “Especially if they don’t bother reading the fine print about the ports.”
Elia stepped away long enough to retrieve the decanter from the sideboard and refill Lorenzo’s glass without being asked twice. She kept her eyes lowered as she handed itback.
“Good,” he murmured. “She learns.”
Elia didn’t care about the fine print. She didn’t care about port access rights or shell holdings or whatever invisible war the Donatis and Severins waged beneath polished smiles. She cared about the door behind her and how many steps it would take to reach it without drawing attention.
Tommaso Carbone leaned closer, his breath warm with whiskey. “You’ll be very useful when the time comes.”
His hand dropped, fingers brushing the small of her back where a servant’s apron normally tied before drifting lower to cup her buttocks. Areminder of where she belonged.
“I’ll be useful how?” she asked, stepping clear of hishold.
His smile turned crude. “Don’t make me spell it out.”
Dario chuckled. “Black suits you. Makes you look like the servant you are. And a hell of a lot less innocent.”
Lorenzo’s gaze flicked over her. “After Vittorio dies, we’ll have to decide how to dividecertain assets.”
“You could give her to your best friend,” Tommaso suggested lightly.
Silence followed that statement, heavy and deliberate.
Elia’s stomach tightened, but her expression didn’t change. She’d long ago mastered the art of stillness, of letting words strike and pass through her as if they meant nothing atall.
