Chapter 4 - UNDER HIS ROOF
By morning, the sun broke through the heavy gray clouds over Chicago, casting golden light across the manicured lawns of the Valente estate.
Clara was moved from the study into a sunlit guest bedroom on the second floor. A team of nurses, handpicked by Dr. Mercer, attended to her needs, bringing her hot soup, clean clothes, and blankets.
Elena spent the entire morning by her sister's bedside, listening as Clara talked in a soft, halting voice about their father—how he had visited her every Sunday, brought her books, and told her stories about her older sister, Elena, whom he called his "brightest star."
"He wanted to bring us together," Clara whispered, her small hand clutching Elena’s firmly. "He said as soon as he cleared his debt with the Valente family, we were all going to move to Italy."
Elena squeezed her sister's hand, swallowing back her tears. "We’ll still go someday, Clara. I promise."
At noon, a knock sounded at the bedroom door.
Frank Russo stood in the hallway, looking surprisingly polished in a dark gray suit. "Miss Moretti. Mr. Valente wishes to see you in the dining room."
"I should get dressed in my uniform," Elena said instinctively.
Frank shook his head firmly. "You aren't a maid here anymore, Miss Moretti. Mr. Valente’s orders."
Ten minutes later, Elena walked into the grand dining room.
A massive oak table was set with fine china, silver cutlery, and fresh pastries. Matteo sat at the head of the table, wearing a crisp white shirt—this one fitting him perfectly—reading a thick leather folder.
He looked up as she entered. His eyes swept over her dark green sweater and black trousers, a quiet look of approval passing across his face.
"Sit," Matteo commanded gently, gesturing to the chair at his right hand.
Elena hesitated, then took the seat. A servant immediately poured her a cup of hot black coffee and placed a plate of warm croissants before her.
"How is she?" Matteo asked, closing the folder.
"Sleeping," Elena replied, taking a small sip of coffee. "Dr. Mercer says her fever is completely gone. Thank you, Matteo. For everything."
"You don't need to thank me," Matteo said smoothly. "As I told you, it is a debt owed to your father."
"And the cameras?" Elena asked, raising an eyebrow. "Are they still watching me?"
A faint, wicked smirk touched Matteo’s lips. "I had Frank remove every camera from the domestic quarters two hours ago. You are free to dance with wooden spoons without an audience."
Elena blushed furiously, looking down at her napkin. "I will never live that down, will I?"
"Never," Matteo agreed calmly.
He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a sleek, modern smartphone, sliding it across the polished table toward her.
"What's this?" she asked.
"Your old phone was tapped by the Falcone family's intelligence team," Matteo explained. "This phone is encrypted. My personal number is pre-programmed inside. If you ever leave this estate, you take this phone with you."
Elena looked at the device, then looked back at him. "Am I a prisoner here?"
"You are a target," Matteo corrected, his gray eyes darkening. "The Falcones know your father had a second daughter. They know he kept a set of hard-copy ledgers hidden before he was arrested. They suspect Clara knows where those ledgers are."
Elena felt a cold chill run down her spine. "Does she?"
"She was sixteen and terrified," Matteo said. "She doesn't know. But the Falcones won't care about that. If they catch her—or you—they will use you to force my hand."
Before Elena could respond, the heavy double doors of the dining room swung open.
A tall, blonde woman dressed in an exquisite designer trench coat walked in, flanked by two private security guards. She had razor-sharp cheekbones, bright blue eyes, and an expression of supreme arrogance.
It was Bianca Falcone—the daughter of Don Hector Falcone, the head of Chicago's rival crime syndicate.
"Matteo," Bianca purred, stepping into the room with smooth, predatory confidence. "Your front guards told me you were busy, but I knew you'd make time for an old friend."
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Bianca’s eyes flicked to Elena sitting right beside Matteo at the head of the table. Her gaze dropped to the fine china and the domestic setting, her eyes narrowing into cold slits.
"And who is this?" Bianca asked, her voice dripping with condensation. "I didn't realize you were entertaining the domestic help at your dining table."
