Chapter 1 - The Woman in His Bed
Elena Marlow woke in Victor Russo’s bed and whispered, “Oh God. I’m dead.”
Victor entered the room carrying a black leather folder.
A corner of a photograph protruded from it.
Someone had written one word across the back.
Marlow.
Victor stopped moving.
This was no longer about a maid sleeping where she did not belong.
Less than three hours earlier, Victor Russo had rejected a bride worth millions.
The negotiation had taken place downstairs in the formal dining room of the Russo residence, where men who distrusted one another pretended crystal glasses and expensive food could transform threats into civilized conversation.
Victor sat at the head of the table.
Across from him sat Dominic Bellandi, a gray-haired Chicago boss whose influence stretched from trucking companies to warehouses near the river.
Beside Dominic sat his daughter, Sofia.
Twenty-six.
Beautiful.
Educated.
Terrified.
Sofia wore red silk and kept both hands beneath the table, where Victor suspected she was twisting her fingers together.
Dominic had spent twenty minutes explaining what Victor would gain.
Three shipping contracts.
Access to two riverfront storage facilities.
A financial partnership worth nearly twenty million dollars.
And, most importantly, an end to the hostility that had existed between their families for almost a decade.
Then Dominic had leaned back.
“All you have to do is marry my daughter.”
Victor looked at Sofia.
She finally met his eyes.
There was no excitement there.
No affection.
Only resignation.
Victor hated resignation.
It reminded him too much of his mother.
He set down his glass.
“No.”
Dominic stared at him.
Victor’s uncle Carlo shifted sharply in his chair.
His cousin Matteo went still.
Even Sofia looked surprised.
Dominic gave a humorless laugh.
“You didn’t consider it.”
“I considered it before you finished describing the second warehouse.”
“You reject twenty million dollars?”
“I reject marrying a woman who looks like she’s waiting for a sentence to be carried out.”
Dominic’s face hardened.
Sofia lowered her eyes.
Victor continued.
“If your daughter wants to marry me, she can tell me herself.”
Dominic’s jaw tightened.
“Sofia?”
The young woman remained silent.
Victor waited.
Finally, she whispered, “I don’t.”
Silence swallowed the room.
Victor stood.
“Then the answer is no.”
Carlo followed Victor into the corridor five minutes later.
“You embarrassed him.”
“I freed his daughter.”
“You endangered our position.”
Victor stopped.
“You want the Bellandi routes?”
“Of course.”
“Then negotiate for them. Don’t purchase them with a woman.”
Carlo’s face turned cold.
“You are thirty-four years old. Every family in this city has offered you someone. You reject all of them.”
“That sounds like their problem.”
“It becomes our problem when you refuse every alliance.”
Victor walked away.
He had no patience for the argument.
He had heard it for six years.
Marry for influence.
Marry for territory.
Marry for peace.
Victor had watched his father marry for those exact reasons.
His mother had lived twenty-seven years in a beautiful house where nothing belonged to her, including her own choices.
Victor would rather die unmarried.
He climbed the stairs toward his private floor.
Only three people were normally allowed there.
Victor.
His security chief, Gabriel Costa.
And Elena Marlow, the quiet maid who cleaned his rooms each morning.
He saw the bedroom door partly open.
That was unusual.
Elena always closed it when she finished.
Victor pushed it wider.
Then stopped.
Elena was asleep on his bed.
Not lying beneath the blankets.
Not deliberately making herself comfortable.
She had clearly sat down near the foot of the mattress and simply collapsed.
She was curled on her side.
Still wearing her charcoal maid’s uniform.
Her white apron was wrinkled beneath one hand.
Her hair had come loose from its bun.
A strand crossed her cheek.
Her shoes were on the floor beside the bed.
Victor stared at her.
He should have been angry.
Household staff had strict boundaries.
Everyone understood them.
But Elena looked less like someone violating a rule than someone who had reached the absolute limit of what her body could endure.
He crossed the room quietly.
“Elena.”
Nothing.
He tried again.
“Elena.”
Her eyes snapped open.
For two seconds she looked confused.
Then she saw him.
All the color left her face.
“Oh God,” she whispered. “I’m dead.”
Victor almost smiled.
Almost.
“What are you doing in here?”
She pushed herself upright so quickly she nearly fell from the mattress.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Russo. I was changing the sheets and then Mrs. Bell told me the guest rooms had to be reset after dinner and then Mrs. Russo wanted the silver polished and I came back here and—”
She stopped.
Victor noticed the dark circles beneath her eyes.
“When did you last sleep?”
“I’m fine.”
“That wasn’t my question.”
Elena looked toward the floor.
“Yesterday morning.”
Victor’s expression changed.
“You worked all night?”
“There was a reception.”
“And today?”
“Breakfast service started at five.”
It was nearly eleven at night.
Victor turned toward the door.
“Elena.”
“Yes?”
“You’re finished for tonight.”
Her head lifted.
“I still have the west hall.”
“No.”
“But Mrs. Bell—”
“Mrs. Bell does not outrank me in my house.”
Elena gave the smallest nod.
Victor noticed something else.
Fear.
Not embarrassment.
Not merely concern over losing her job.
Actual fear.
“Who are you afraid of?”
Elena’s fingers tightened around her apron.
“No one.”
Victor took one slow step closer.
“You looked at the door before answering.”
She swallowed.
“I should go.”
“Elena.”
She stood.
Her knees almost buckled.
Victor caught her elbow automatically.
She froze.
He released her immediately.
“I’m sorry.”
“No, I—”
Footsteps sounded in the corridor.
Elena’s face changed instantly.
Victor saw it.
That same fear.
The bedroom door opened.
Carlo entered first.
Behind him came Victor’s aunt Teresa and Matteo.
All three stopped.
Their gazes went from Victor to Elena.
Then to the bed.
Carlo’s expression sharpened.
“Well.”
Elena immediately stepped away from Victor.
“I’m sorry. I fell asleep while working.”
Teresa’s eyes narrowed.
“In his bed?”
“I didn’t mean to.”
“Get downstairs.”
Elena began moving.
Victor stepped in front of her.
“No.”
Everyone looked at him.
Carlo’s voice dropped.
“Victor.”
“She’s exhausted.”
“She is an employee.”
“She is a person.”
Teresa gave a small, bitter laugh.
“You have just insulted the Bellandi family because you refuse to choose a suitable woman, and now we find this girl in your bedroom?”
Elena flinched.
Victor noticed.
Teresa continued.
“Send her downstairs.”
Victor stayed where he was.
Carlo looked directly at Elena.
“You will leave Chicago tonight.”
Victor’s eyes hardened.
“What did you say?”
Carlo ignored him.
“To her.”
Elena lowered her gaze.
Carlo’s voice became colder.
“We were already generous enough to give you until midnight.”
Victor turned slowly toward Elena.
“What is he talking about?”
She said nothing.
“Elena.”
Her lips parted.
Carlo answered for her.
“She is leaving.”
“Why?”
“Because she has become inconvenient.”
Victor’s expression went still.
“Inconvenient how?”
Teresa stepped forward.
“This does not concern you.”
“It is happening in my house. It concerns me.”
Carlo exhaled.
“You rejected an alliance tonight that could stabilize everything we have built. We do not need additional complications.”
Victor glanced at Elena.
“What complication?”
Nobody answered.
Victor stepped between Elena and the doorway.
“No. She stays with me.”
Teresa stared at him.
“You cannot be serious.”
“I rarely repeat myself.”
Carlo’s face darkened.
“You don’t know who she is.”
Victor looked at Elena.
She looked terrified.
Not guilty.
Terrified.
Then Carlo said something Victor did not expect.
“Ask her about Daniel Marlow.”
Elena went white.
Victor caught the reaction immediately.
“Who is Daniel Marlow?”
Carlo smiled without warmth.
“That,” he said, “is exactly the problem.”
Victor’s bedroom went silent.
Elena whispered, “Please.”
Victor turned toward her.
“Tell me.”
“I can’t.”
“Why?”
Her eyes filled.
“Because everyone who knows ends up disappearing from this house.”
Before Victor could answer, Gabriel Costa appeared in the doorway holding a black leather folder.
“Victor.”
Victor glanced at him.
Gabriel’s expression was unusual.
Tense.
“What?”
“We found something downstairs.”
He handed Victor the folder.
Inside were several old photographs and copies of financial records.
Victor pulled out the first photograph.
A younger Carlo stood beside Victor’s late father outside a warehouse.
A third man stood between them.
Victor did not recognize him.
Then he turned the photograph over.
Three names had been handwritten across the back.
Anthony Russo.
Carlo Russo.
Daniel Marlow.
Victor slowly raised his eyes toward Elena.
She had begun shaking.
“My father,” she whispered.
Victor looked back at Carlo.
His uncle had stopped smiling.
Victor finally understood one thing.
Elena had not accidentally wandered into the Russo family’s secrets.
She had been born inside one.
Gabriel reached into the folder again.
“There’s more.”
He placed a sealed envelope in Victor’s hand.
The paper was yellowed with age.
Across the front, written in his dead father’s handwriting, were five words.
FOR VICTOR—IF DANIEL IS DEAD.
Victor stared at them.
Carlo lunged forward.
“Give me that.”
Victor pulled the envelope away.
Carlo stopped.
Nobody breathed.
Victor slid one finger beneath the flap.
Then the lights went out.
A sound came from the hallway.
A woman screamed downstairs.
May you like
And in the darkness beside Victor, Elena whispered the name of the man she believed had finally come for her.
“Matteo…”
