His Maid Could Barely Stand, but What Matteo Learned Outside Her Apartment Made Him Turn on His Own Blood

The guest suite on the second floor of the Romano mansion was larger than Clare’s entire apartment in Humboldt Park.

High, arched windows overlooked the manicured gardens at the rear of the property. The floors were covered in thick, cream-colored Persian rugs, and a king-sized bed adorned with crisp white linens occupied the center of the room. It felt less like a bedroom and more like a high-end hotel suite reserved for visiting diplomats.

Clare sat on the edge of the plush mattress, wearing a pair of clean cotton lounge pants and a dark sweater that Mrs. Gable, the head housekeeper, had brought up an hour ago.

Dr. Miller, the private physician who had served the Romano family for twenty years, had just finished wrapping her right ankle in a tight, supportive bandage.

"It’s a severe sprain, Miss Morgan," Dr. Miller said quietly as he packed his leather medical bag on the nightstand. "No torn ligaments, fortunately, but you need to keep weight off it for at least three to four days. I’ve left a mild pain reliever on the table. Take one every six hours."

"Thank you, Doctor," Clare murmured.

The doctor paused, his hand resting on the latch of his bag. He glanced toward the closed bedroom door before leaning in slightly. "Mr. Romano was extremely specific about your care. If you experience any discomfort at all, do not hesitate to use the intercom near the bed. The staff has been instructed to assist you with everything."

"I'm not used to being waited on," Clare admitted with a small, self-deprecating smile. "I'm usually the one changing these sheets."

Dr. Miller offered a sympathetic nod, though his eyes remained serious. "Things are somewhat unusual in the house today, Miss Morgan. Stay in this room. It is safer."

Before Clare could ask what he meant by safer, the doctor bowed his head politely and exited the suite.

The quiet that followed was absolute.

Clare rested her head against the carved wooden headboard, her eyes wandering around the room. Three years ago, she had taken the job at the Romano estate out of sheer desperation. Her father’s medical debts had wiped out her meager savings, and the high hourly wage offered by the Romano estate had seemed like a miracle. She had expected a house filled with loud, violent men. Instead, she had found a quiet, impeccably run palace ruled by a man who treated his staff with a distant, uncompromising respect.

Matteo Romano was a phantom to most of the world. The newspapers wrote about his vast legitimate holdings—his real estate developments along the lakefront, his luxury hotel stakes, his shipping logistics firms. But the tabloids and police reports told a vastly different story: a story of a man who had consolidated control over the city's underbelly after his father's death five years ago, eliminating rivals through strategic brilliance rather than chaotic bloodshed.

Yet in three years, Clare had never seen him lose his temper. She had seen him sit at his desk for sixteen hours straight, reading contracts in total silence. She had seen him pay for the education of a deceased security guard’s children.

And now, she was sitting in his guest suite because two unknown men had bruised her ankle.

A soft knock interrupted her thoughts.

"Come in," she called out.

The door swung open, and Matteo stepped inside. He had shed his white dress shirt for a dark grey cashmere sweater, his dark hair slightly rumpled as if he had been running his fingers through it. In his right hand, he carried a small silver tray bearing a bowl of soup, fresh bread, and a glass of water.

Clare stared at him. "Mr. Romano... you don't need to bring me food."

"Mrs. Gable was busy preparing dinner for the staff," Matteo said simply, walking across the cream rug and placing the tray gently across her lap. "And I wanted to see if the doctor’s prognosis was acceptable."

"He said it's a sprain," she said, looking down at the steaming soup. "I should be back on my feet in three days."

"You will stay off your feet until I decide you are ready to work," Matteo corrected her gently, leaning against the bedpost with his arms folded across his chest. "How is the pain?"

"Throttled by the bandage," she replied, picking up the spoon. "It's manageable."

Matteo watched her eat in quiet contemplation. The silence between them was not uncomfortable, but it carried an underlying weight—a quiet tension that had been steadily growing since he had locked his arms around her waist in the study.

"I sent two men to your apartment in Humboldt Park," Matteo said suddenly.

Clare froze, her spoon hovering above the bowl. "Why?"

"To retrieve your clothing, your documents, and your medicine," he replied, his tone perfectly matter-of-fact. "And to inspect the building."

"Did they find anything?"

"Your front door lock was bypassed," Matteo said coldly. "Someone entered your apartment roughly an hour after you left for work this morning."

A cold spike of fear shot straight through Clare’s chest. She set the spoon down, her fingers trembling against the silver tray. "They went inside my apartment?"

"They searched it," Matteo confirmed. "It was done quietly. No furniture was destroyed, no drawers were left overturned. Whoever did it was looking for something specific."

"I don't have anything!" Clare exclaimed, her voice rising in panic. "I have my mother's old jewelry box with costume rings! I have my clothes and a laptop that barely works! Why would anyone search my apartment?"

"Because they believe you know something," Matteo said, taking a step closer to the bed. His eyes were dark, intense, and completely locked onto hers. "Or because they wanted to see if I would react when they touched you."

Clare swallowed hard, her pulse racing. "What does that mean?"

"It means, Clare, that whoever sent those men knows you work in this house," Matteo explained softly. "They know you have access to my study. They wanted to see if you were a soft target—someone they could threaten to turn into an informant."

"I would never tell them anything," she said fiercely, her eyes flashing with a sudden, sharp heat. "I don't care what they threatened me with. I wouldn't betray this house."

Matteo looked down at her, his dark eyes softening imperceptibly. A faint, genuine warmth flickered across his face—a rare, beautiful sight that made Clare’s chest ache.

"I know," he whispered. "That is why they failed."

He reached out, his hand moving slowly, deliberately, until his long fingers brushed lightly against her cheek. His thumb smoothed over her high cheekbone with remarkable gentleness. The contrast between his large, calloused hand and her soft skin was breathtaking.

Clare held her breath, unable to move, unable to look away from his dark, hypnotic gaze.

"You are safe here, Clare," he murmured, his thumb catching a stray lock of hair and tucking it behind her ear. "I will personally guarantee it."

Before she could form a reply, the radio strapped to Matteo’s belt crackled to life with a sharp burst of static.

"Boss," Marcus’s voice came through the speaker, tight and urgent. "We have a situation at the South Side warehouse. Adrian says you need to see this immediately."

Matteo did not break eye contact with Clare for two long seconds. Then, slowly, he lowered his hand, his expression closing like a heavy iron gate.

"I have to leave for a few hours," he said quietly. "Keep the door locked. Do not open it for anyone other than Mrs. Gable or Marcus."

"Matteo..." she called out as he turned toward the door.

He stopped, looking back over his shoulder.

"Be careful," she whispered.