Chapter 4 - A Mug of Tea in the Dark
By three o'clock in the morning, the Moretti estate was usually silent as a grave.
Grace couldn't sleep. The storm outside had returned with a vengeance, driving heavy wind and rain against her third-floor staff quarters window. Her lower back was aching from three hours of moving heavy oak furniture in the library earlier that afternoon.
She threw on an old fleece robe, slipped her feet into her sheepskin slippers, and decided to venture down to the main kitchen to make herself a cup of chamomile tea.
The grand house was pitch black, lit only by the faint green glow of security cameras and the occasional flash of lightning outside the high arched windows. Grace walked silently down the back stairwell, feeling her way along the dark mahogany wood.
As she stepped into the massive commercial kitchen, she froze.
A solitary figure was sitting at the dark granite island, illuminated only by the faint yellow glow of the open refrigerator door.
It was Matteo.
He was sitting on a barstool, wearing only a black t-shirt and dark trousers. His dark hair was messy, hanging down over his forehead. In front of him sat an empty glass and a half-full bottle of expensive scotch. But what caught Grace’s breath was his right arm—his forearm was wrapped in a thick white bandage, and blood was slowly seeping through the fabric.
Titan and Nero were sitting on the floor at his feet, resting their chins on his boots, watching him with anxious, wide eyes.
Grace backed up half a step, intending to slip away quietly. “I’m sorry, sir. I didn't know you were down here.”
Matteo turned his head sharply. In the dim light, his eyes looked dark, exhausted, and raw with pain.
“Grace,” he rasped out, his voice rough. “It’s fine. Stay.”
Grace hesitated, then walked slowly into the kitchen. The dogs thumped their tails twice against the floorboards in greeting, but stayed by Matteo’s side.
“You’re bleeding,” Grace pointed out gently, gesturing toward his arm.
Matteo glanced down at his arm as if he had forgotten it was there. “A minor disagreement during an evening meeting. It’s nothing.”
“That ‘nothing’ is going to ruin your shirt,” Grace said, walking past him toward the cabinets. She grabbed a clean dish towel, a bowl of warm water from the kettle, and a first-aid kit from the pantry shelf.
She walked over to his stool and set the supplies down on the granite island.
“May I?” she asked softly.
Matteo looked at her—really looked at her. In the quiet darkness of the three o'clock hour, without his three-piece suits and security guards, he looked less like a feared syndicate boss and more like a tired, injured man carrying the weight of a violent world on his shoulders.
He slowly extended his arm toward her. “Go ahead.”
Grace pulled up a stool beside him and sat down. Her movement was slow, deliberate, and entirely unhurried. She carefully unwrapped the bloody bandage, revealing a nasty, jagged graze along his muscle—looks like a bullet had scraped past him, or a sharp piece of shattered glass.
She dipped the clean cloth into the warm water and began gently dabbing away the dried blood. She didn't wince. She didn't ask questions about who had shot at him or why. She simply worked with steady, practiced hands.
“You have very gentle hands,” Matteo murmured, watching her face in the soft light.
“Used to patch up my brother a lot,” Grace smiled faintly, applying a fresh antibiotic salve to his wound. “He was always getting into fights at the docks. Thought he was made of iron.”
“Was he?”
“No,” Grace said softly, her eyes dipping slightly. “Nobody is.”
Matteo was silent for a long moment. He watched her wrap a fresh, clean bandage around his arm, her fingers brushing warm and soft against his skin.
“You don't ask questions, Grace,” Matteo noted softly. “Most people would be terrified sitting in a dark room with a bleeding man who commands a criminal empire.”
Grace finished pinning the bandage in place and leaned back. “Mr. Moretti, I’ve worked for rich people, poor people, good people, and bad people. In my experience, the dangerous ones are usually the ones who spend all their time trying to prove how powerful they are.”
She looked directly into his amber eyes. “You don't prove it. You just carry it. And the dogs trust you. That tells me enough.”
Matteo stared at her. For the first time since she had met him, the hard, impenetrable armor around his expression completely crumbled. A soft, genuine, breathtaking smile spread across his dark face.
“You are a strange woman, Grace Donovan,” he whispered, his voice rich and deep.
“I’m just a maid who wanted a cup of tea,” she chuckled softly, standing up to clean the bowl.
“Sit down,” Matteo commanded gently, reaching out and taking her thick wrist in his warm hand. His touch sent a sudden, electric shock straight up her spine. “I’ll make the tea.”
May you like
Grace blinked in surprise as the feared mob boss stood up, picked up the kettle, and began preparing two mugs of chamomile tea. He handed one to her, his fingers brushing hers, and sat back down beside her in the dark, quiet kitchen.
They sat together in comfortable, warm silence, drinking tea while two massive pitbulls slept soundly at their feet, as the rain drummed a soothing rhythm against the glass.
