Chapter 7 - The Master and the Maid
By three o'clock in the morning, the estate had been cleared.
Luca and his team had handed the surviving mercenary over to federal authorities, the perimeter fence had been repaired, and the syndicate bosses had been safely escorted back to their private planes under heavy guard.
The storm outside had finally cleared, leaving a brilliant canopy of winter stars shining over the snow-covered pine trees.
In Matteo’s private quarters on the top floor of the west wing, the stone fireplace burned with a warm, steady flame.
Clara sat on the edge of a massive dark velvet sofa, wearing a soft cream cashmere sweater and black trousers that Mrs. Gable had brought her after she washed the plaster dust from her hair. She held a warm mug of chamomile tea in her hands, watching the flames lick the birch logs.
Bruno lay sprawled across the thick sheepskin rug before the fire, sleeping so deeply he was softly snoring.
The door to the adjoining dressing room opened, and Matteo stepped out. He had changed out of his suit into a simple black long-sleeved shirt and trousers. His hair was damp, and a small white bandage covered a minor graze on his left forearm where a piece of flying glass had caught him during the breach.
He walked over to the sofa, picked up a small silver tray containing a glass of amber scotch, and sat down on the leather armchair opposite Clara.
For ten minutes, neither of them spoke. The quiet crackle of the fire and Bruno’s peaceful breathing filled the vast, luxurious room.
“Dr. Hale checked Bruno thirty minutes ago,” Matteo said softly, breaking the silence. “He said his hip survived the leap without any major damage. He just needs two days of rest and warm compresses.”
Clara smiled faintly, looking down at the sleeping dog. “He was so brave tonight.”
“So were you,” Matteo said.
Clara looked up, meeting his steady gray-green gaze. “I was terrified.”
“Bravery isn't the absence of fear, Clara,” Matteo said quietly, setting his scotch glass down on the side table. “It’s doing what needs to be done even when you are terrified.”
He stood up from his chair, walked over to the sofa, and sat down beside her. The leather cushion dipped beneath his weight, bringing him close enough that Clara could feel the heat radiating from his body.
“When I saw that man raise his gun toward this wing,” Matteo murmured, his voice dropping into a low, husky register, “my heart stopped. I have stood in gunfights across three continents, Clara. I have been shot, I have been betrayed, and I have never once felt fear like I felt in that corridor tonight.”
Clara felt her pulse leap into her throat. “Matteo...”
“I thought I was building a life where I was in complete control,” Matteo continued, reaching out to gently take her mug of tea from her hands and set it on the table. “I controlled my men, my business, my dog, my house. I thought control was the same thing as strength.”
He turned back to her, his long fingers reaching out to cup her cheek, his thumb gently tracing her cheekbone with a tenderness that made Clara’s eyes flutter shut.
“Then a clumsy maid spilled two buckets of soapy water over my killer hound,” Matteo whispered, a soft, breathless laugh escaping his lips. “And within six weeks, she completely dismantled my fortress without ever raising her voice.”
Clara opened her eyes, looking directly into his soul. “I didn't mean to dismantle your fortress, Matteo.”
“I know,” Matteo murmured, leaning closer, his dark face hovering inches from hers. “That is why it was so effective.”
His gaze dropped to her lips, then back to her eyes, asking a silent, unspoken question.
Clara didn't pull away. Instead, she lifted her hand and pressed her palm against his chest, feeling the steady, powerful thud of his heart beneath the black cotton of his shirt.
“Show me how to stop hiding, Matteo,” she whispered softly.
Matteo let out a soft groan and bent his head, pressing his lips to hers.
The kiss was slow, deep, and intoxicating. It carried none of the cold brutality of his world; it was filled with months of unspoken devotion, wild heat, and profound, tender relief. Clara wrapped her arms around his neck, pulling him closer, surrendering completely to the safety of his arms.
When he finally pulled back, resting his forehead against hers, his breathing was as ragged as hers.
“You are never going back to Chicago, Clara,” Matteo declared softly, his fingers tangled in her dark hair. “You are never working as a maid for anyone again. You belong here. With me.”
Clara smiled through the happy tears spilling down her cheeks. “And Bruno?”
May you like
Matteo looked down at the sleeping Cane Corso, who gave a soft, rhythmic snore near the fire.
“Bruno,” Matteo murmured, kissing Clara’s lips once more, “was right about you from the very first second.”
