Chapter 4 - The Third Floor Suite
The third floor of the Marchetti mansion was a domain closed to ninety percent of the household staff. It housed Enzo's private office, his personal armory, a state-of-the-art security command center, and his private living quarters. The walls here were lined with dark mahogany and muted silk tapestries, the floors covered in plush Persian carpets that swallowed the sound of footsteps completely.
At 3:30 AM, Adeline carried her single canvas duffel bag into her new suite.
The room was vast, five times the size of her servant's quarters on the fourth floor. It featured a king-sized bed with dark green silk sheets, a marble fireplace, a private balcony overlooking the south gardens, and an adjoining bathroom equipped with a deep clawfoot tub and medical-grade refrigeration units.
On the mahogany dress vanity sat three large boxes from an exclusive boutique on Michigan Avenue.
Adeline dropped her duffel bag on the rug and opened the first box. Inside were tailored trousers, silk blouses, cashmere sweaters, and structured blazers—all in dark, elegant tones of charcoal, navy, and deep burgundy. No aprons. No gray housekeeping cotton.
Beside the boxes lay a keycard and a sleek, encrypted smartphone.
A soft knock sounded on the connecting door—the heavy oak door that linked her suite directly to Enzo's master quarters.
Adeline opened it. Enzo stood in the doorway, now wearing a simple black t-shirt and dark trousers, looking less like a mafia Don and more like a dangerous predator at ease in his lair.
"The clothes should fit," he said, leaning against the doorframe, his dark eyes sweeping over her simple slip and robe. "I had my assistant pull your measurements from your old medical school athletic files."
"You're very thorough," Adeline said, her voice guarded as she crossed her arms over her chest. "Is this part of the compensation package, or am I being dressed as a trophy to irritate Camila?"
"Camila doesn't need any more irritation; she is currently being monitored by three of my best men in her family's downtown penthouse," Enzo replied coolly. "You are dressed like that because tomorrow at eight in the morning, you sit beside me at the executive board meeting of Marchetti Logistics."
Adeline blinked. "As what?"
"As my chief medical consultant and personal advisor," Enzo said, stepping into her room with natural authority. He walked over to the refrigeration unit built into the corner vanity, opened it, and checked the temperature gauge. "My father was poisoned two years ago, Adeline. The public story was a sudden heart attack. The medical examiner—a man paid off by the Ashford family—signed the certificate without an autopsy."
He turned to look at her, his expression turning stone-hard.
"I suspect they used the same digitalis compound on him over a period of six months," Enzo continued. "I need someone with your surgical precision to review his medical records, analyze his preserved blood samples, and build an airtight forensic case that I can take to the Commission."
Adeline listened, her analytical mind instantly piecing together the political map of the Chicago underworld. "The Commission won't let you execute the head of the Ashford family without absolute proof. If you start a war without their approval, the other four families will combine forces to eliminate you."
"Precisely," Enzo said, a faint glimmer of approval in his eyes. "You understand power. That makes you useful. But more importantly, you don't fear me."
"I've held human hearts in my hands while they stopped beating, Mr. Marchetti," Adeline said, stepping closer to him, her brown eyes bright with defiance. "I've looked into the eyes of dying men and told them to hold on while I repaired torn aortas. A man in an expensive suit with a gun under his arm does not terrify me."
Enzo stared down at her, fascinated by the fiery spirit trapped inside the former surgeon. Most people in his world trembled when he entered a room; they stammered, lied, or offered groveling subservience. But this woman, marked by his fiancée's whip, stood in her cotton slip and challenged him in his own sanctuary.
"Good," Enzo murmured, his voice dropping into that low, dangerous register that made her heart skip a beat. "Because tomorrow, the snakes will strike at us from every angle. I need someone beside me who doesn't flinch when the blood starts to flow."
He reached out, his hand hovering over her injured forearm. "Does it hurt?"
"It stings," she admitted truthfully. "It will bruise tomorrow."
Enzo reached into his pocket and pulled out a small glass jar containing a dark, aromatic salve. "Ambrose made this. It's an old family recipe—comfrey root, arnica, and lard. It stops the bruising within twelve hours."
He unscrewed the cap. Before she could object, he gently took her hand, lifting her arm into the warm light of the desk lamp. With incredible gentleness for a man whose hands had ended lives, he dipped his fingers into the salve and began smoothing it over the raw, inflamed welts on her forearm.
Adeline caught her breath. His touch was warm, precise, sending small tingles of electricity across her skin. She stared at his bowed head, at the thick dark hair that curled slightly at the nape of his neck, at the steady, rhythmic movement of his hands.
"Why are you doing this yourself?" she whispered, unable to stop the question from escaping her lips.
Enzo didn't look up, his thumb smoothing the ointment over a deep red mark near her elbow. "Because she did this under my roof. Because my family's legacy was built on protection, not cruelty to those who serve us. And because..."
He paused, finally lifting his eyes to meet hers. The distance between them was reduced to inches.
"Because I haven't been able to stop thinking about the way you looked at me in that hallway," he said softly. "You didn't look at me like I was a monster. You looked at me like I was a man who had finally arrived to do the right thing."
Adeline felt the air grow thick between them. She wanted to step back, to re-establish the professional boundary that kept her safe, but her body refused to move. For three years, she had fought every battle alone—against corrupt doctors, ruthless lawyers, medical bills, and the terrifying weight of her daughter's mortality. For three years, no one had stood in front of her. No one had put a coat over her shoulders. No one had smoothed salve over her wounds.
"Enzo..." she breathed, his name slipping past her lips like a quiet confession.
May you like
He closed the jar with his thumb, his gaze dropping to her mouth for a long, agonizing second before he pulled back, re-establishing his disciplined distance with frightening speed.
"Get some sleep, Dr. Croft," he said, stepping back toward the connecting door. "Tomorrow at eight, we go to war."
