Chapter 4 - A Shift in Command
Saturday evening brought an unexpected dinner party to the Moretti estate.
Four high-ranking associates from Matteo’s regional operations arrived in sleek black sedans, accompanied by their wives and security staff. The main dining room was prepared with crystal stemware, polished silver, and three dozen white candles flickering against the mahogany paneling.
Clara stood near the side service doors of the dining room, dressed in a neat black dress and white apron—a compromise Mrs. Gable insisted upon for formal events. Bruno lay quietly at her feet behind the oak privacy screen, his dark head resting on his paws, observing the room through the slatted wood.
Bianca Russo was present, sitting at the right hand of Matteo at the head of the table. She wore a stunning emerald-green silk dress that clung to her curves, a diamond necklace glittering at her throat. Throughout the four-course meal, Bianca made a point of laughing loudly at Matteo’s subtle remarks, leaning close to him, and issuing sharp orders to the service staff.
“Clara,” Bianca called out loudly, interrupting a conversation between Matteo and a lieutenant from Milwaukee. “Bring fresh ice for the champagne bucket. And be quick about it. Try not to slip on your own feet this time.”
Several guests chuckled softly. Clara bit her lip, gave a polite nod, and walked toward the side pantry to fetch the silver ice bucket.
Bruno’s ears perked up. He stood up softly behind the privacy screen, his dark eyes following Bianca’s movement as she adjusted her silk dress.
When Clara returned with the ice, Bianca deliberately shifted her chair backward, blocking the narrow passage between the sideboard and the table.
Clara stopped, holding the heavy silver bucket. “Excuse me, Miss Russo.”
Bianca didn't move. Instead, she reached for her glass of red wine, her elbow knocking sharply against the corner of Clara’s apron as if by accident. The heavy silver bucket wobbled in Clara’s hands, ice splashing over the polished hardwood floor.
“Oh, honestly!” Bianca shrieked, standing up abruptly and pulling her green silk skirt away. “You clumsy, useless girl! Look what you’ve done to my dress!”
A red splash of wine had caught the hem of Bianca’s silk gown. The entire dining table fell silent.
“I’m so sorry, Miss Russo—" Clara began, dropping to her knees to gather the scattered ice.
“Get away from me!” Bianca spat, raising her hand as if to slap Clara’s shoulder away.
Before Bianca’s hand could travel two inches, a shadow exploded from behind the wooden privacy screen.
A deep, terrifying roar ripped through the dining room.
Bruno launched his one-hundred-and-forty-pound frame forward. He didn't bite. He didn't tear. He slammed his broad chest directly into Bianca’s side, knocking her backward against the sideboard. Before she could hit the floor, Bruno planted both of his massive front paws on the stone mantelpiece on either side of her head, pinning her against the wall with his jaws inches from her face.
A guttural, bone-chilling growl vibrated from the beast’s throat, shaking the crystal glasses on the table.
Bianca screamed in pure, unadulterated horror, her face turning as white as the snow outside. “Matteo! Shoot it! Shoot him!”
Two of the visiting lieutenants reached into their jackets for their sidearms.
“DON’T TOUCH YOUR WEAPONS!” Matteo’s voice thundered across the room.
The command was so absolute, so terrifyingly loud, that both men froze with their hands inside their coats.
Matteo stood up slowly from the head of the table. He did not look at Bianca, nor did he look at his armed lieutenants. His eyes swept across the room and landed on Clara, who was sitting on the floor, holding two pieces of ice in her frozen fingers.
“Clara,” Matteo said quietly. “Call him.”
Clara swallowed the lump in her throat. She stood up slowly, keeping her voice completely calm, completely soft.
“Bruno,” Clara called softly. “Bruno, come here, boy.”
The massive Cane Corso didn't move instantly. He kept his dark, bloodshot eyes locked on Bianca’s trembling face for two agonizing seconds, letting out one final, low rumble that made Bianca sob in terror.
Then, slowly, the dog lowered his paws from the wall, turned around, and walked back to Clara’s side, pressing his snout firmly into her palm.
Clara wrapped her arm around his thick neck, holding him close. “Good boy. Good boy, Bruno.”
The dining room was dead quiet, save for Bianca’s hysterical sobbing as she slid down the wall onto the floor, her green silk dress ruined, her diamonds shaking against her throat.
Matteo walked slowly down the length of the table. He stopped in front of Bianca, looking down at her with an expression of cold, utter disgust.
“Matteo...” Bianca wept, reaching for his pant leg. “That beast tried to kill me! That girl engineered it! She must be thrown out—"
“I watched you, Bianca,” Matteo interrupted, his voice dropping into an icy whisper that carried to every ear in the room.
Bianca’s weeping cut off instantly.
“I watched you push your chair back,” Matteo continued, his gray-green eyes glittering with dangerous intelligence. “I watched your elbow strike her bucket. And I saw you raise your hand toward her face.”
Bianca’s mouth worked silently, but no sound came out.
“Bruno did not attack you because he is wild,” Matteo said softly. “He attacked you because he was protecting a member of this household from a hostile strike. He displayed better judgment and better discipline than anyone else at this table.”
Matteo turned his eyes to Luca, who was standing by the entrance.
“Luca.”
“Yes, Boss?”
“Have Miss Russo’s bags packed immediately,” Matteo commanded. “Escort her to her car. She is no longer welcome on any property owned by the Moretti family.”
Bianca gasped. “Matteo! You can’t mean that! My father—"
“Your father will understand that his daughter forgot her manners in my house,” Matteo cut her off coldly. “Get her out of my sight.”
Two guards stepped forward, hoisting the weeping, disheveled woman to her feet and leading her out through the main foyer.
Matteo turned back to his four visiting lieutenants, who were sitting rigidly in their chairs, staring at their plates in complete shock.
“Dinner is concluded,” Matteo announced calmly. “Gentlemen, your rooms are prepared in the east wing. We will discuss the Milwaukee territory tomorrow morning.”
The men stood up quickly, bowing their heads respectfully toward Matteo before filing out of the room like ghost figures.
Within two minutes, the grand dining room was empty, save for the flickering candles, the overturned ice bucket, Matteo, Clara, and Bruno.
Clara stood near the sideboard, her hands resting on Bruno’s head, her heart pounding in her chest. “Mr. Moretti... I am so sorry for disrupting your dinner—”
Matteo walked over to her. He did not look angry. He looked exhausted, the dark lines around his gray-green eyes showing the heavy burden of the life he led.
He looked down at the floor, picked up the silver ice bucket, and set it back on the sideboard. Then he turned to Clara, his gaze softening in a way that made her breath hitch.
“You don't need to apologize for other people's malice, Clara,” Matteo said softly.
He reached out, his long fingers gently touching the side of her arm where Bianca’s elbow had struck her. “Are you hurt?”
“No,” Clara whispered, her pulse fluttering beneath his touch. “I’m fine. Just... shaken.”
Matteo’s thumb brushed lightly against her wrist, hovering over her rapid pulse. A subtle, dangerous heat flared between them, thick and unmistakable.
“You have changed this house, Clara,” Matteo murmured, his voice low and intimate in the quiet room. “And you have changed that beast.”
“He just needed someone to see him, Mr. Moretti,” Clara said softly, looking up into his dark face. “Not as a tool or a weapon. Just as he is.”
Matteo stared into her brown eyes for a long, breath-stealing moment, his thumb lingering against her skin before he slowly withdrew his hand.
May you like
“Perhaps,” Matteo whispered, a dark, self-deprecating smile touching his lips, “I am not the only one in this house who needed that.”
He turned and walked toward his private study, his dark shadow stretching across the polished hardwood floor, leaving Clara standing in the candlelight with her hand pressed against her racing heart.
