Chapter 10
CHAPTER TEN
Kristen
The car sits at the curb.
The driver's door opens, and a man unfolds himself from the vehicle. Tall. Dark hair styled just so, with a few rebellious strands falling across his forehead. A thin scar through his left eyebrow that somehow makes him more attractive, not less.
Because of course the Sartoris would have male models for drivers.
"Kristen Thomas?" His voice is low.
"That's me."
He rounds the car. His dark eyes scan the street behind me, the windows of my building, the parked cars. All in the span of three seconds.
"I'm Dante." He opens the back door for me. "I'll be your driver for the first few days."
"Thank you." I say.
I slide into the backseat. Dante closes the door with a soft thunk and gets back behind the wheel.
The car pulls away from the curb, and I watch my crumbling apartment building shrink in the side mirror. Good riddance. Except it's not, really. That building has been my fortress for eight months. The first place that was truly mine since I met Jack.
Dante's eyes flick to the rearview mirror. Meeting mine for a split second before returning to the road.
Say something. Make conversation. Be normal.
"So... do you always drive for the family?"
His lips twitch. Almost a smile. "When needed."
Right. Okay. That was illuminating.
I try again. "Have you worked for them long?"
"Long enough."
Wonderful. A conversationalist.
I give up and stare out the window instead. The city slides past—brownstones giving way to nicer neighborhoods, then nicer still. Like watching my old life fade in reverse.
My reflection stares back at me from the tinted glass. Dark circles I couldn't quite cover with concealer. Hair pulled back in a practical ponytail because Jack always hated it down. You look like a mess when it's loose. Like you can't take care of yourself.
After years of hearing that, I still can't wear it any other way.
I was an only child. Raised by a single mother who worked two jobs and still couldn't afford to buy me clothes that fit properly. I remember showing up to school in jeans that were three inches too short, sweaters with sleeves that swallowed my hands. The other kids noticed. Kids always notice.
Nice pants, Kristen. Expecting a flood?
My mother did her best. I know that now. But back then, all I knew was the shame of being the poor kid. The one who brought peanut butter sandwiches when everyone else had Lunchables. The one who wore the same shoes until they literally fell apart.
I got good at being invisible. At sliding through life without making waves. At needing nothing from anyone because no one was going to give it to me anyway.
Lucky. That's what I tell myself. Lucky to have survived. Lucky to be sitting in this car, heading toward a job that pays more than I've ever made in my life. Lucky that Lily exists, that she's healthy now, that her heart beats strong and steady after that terrifying surgery.
But luck doesn't fix the broken parts inside me.
I've never had a real friend. Not one. Acquaintances, sure. Coworkers I'd grab coffee with. But someone I'd call at 3 a.m when everything fell apart?
No one.
I built walls so high I forgot there was supposed to be a door.
And then Jack came along. Charming, successful, twelve years older Jack. He didn't knock on my walls. He just walked right through them like they weren't there.
Turns out, being seen by the wrong person is worse than being invisible.
"We're here."
Dante's voice pulls me back. The car has stopped in front of the Sartori compound.
Dante opens my door, and I step out on legs that feel steadier than they should.
"Someone will meet you at the door," Dante says. His eyes do that scanning thing again—gates, guards, roofline. "I'll be here later to take you home."
"Thank you."
He nods once.
I turn toward the house, my cheap flats crunching on the pristine gravel. The gates close behind me with a clang that sounds way too much like a cell door.
Two months, I remind myself. Just two months.
The front door swings open before I even reach the top step.
A woman stands in the doorway. Late fifties, maybe. Dark hair streaked with silver, pulled back. Warm eyes that crinkle at the corners when she smiles. She's wiping her hands on an apron that's already dusted with flour.
"You must be Kristen." She says. "I'm Giulia. Come in, come in. You'll freeze out there."
She ushers me inside before I can respond.
"Thank you, I—"
"No standing in doorways. Bad luck." Giulia waves a dismissive hand and starts walking. "Come. Kitchen first. You need coffee."
I do.
I follow her through the foyer, past the grand staircase I remember from dinner.
The kitchen is massive. Professional-grade appliances, marble countertops, a center island big enough to land a small plane. Copper pots hang from a rack near the stove. Herbs grow in terracotta pots on the windowsill. The room smells like fresh bread and sausage, maybe.
"Sit." Giulia points to a stool at the island. "How do you take your coffee?"
"Um, just black is fine—"
"Black." She makes a tsk sound. "You need more than black. Cream? Sugar?"
"Really, I don't want to be any trouble—"
"Trouble." She laughs, already pulling a mug from the cabinet. "Thirty years I've fed this family. You think making coffee is trouble?"
I sit. Because arguing with this woman seems like a losing battle.
She sets a steaming mug in front of me—coffee with just a splash of cream, despite my protest—then turns back to the stove.
"You've eaten?"
"I had a granola bar—"
A plate appears in front of me. Scrambled eggs, two sausage links, toast with butter already melting into the bread. My stomach growls loud enough.
Traitor.
"Eat." Giulia settles onto the stool across from me, her own coffee cradled in weathered hands. "Then we talk about the house."
I take a bite of the eggs. They're perfect. Fluffy, seasoned just right, with herbs from those windowsill pots, maybe.
"This is amazing," I say around a mouthful. Jack would have been horrified at my lack of table manners. Chew with your mouth closed, Kristen. Were you raised in a barn?
Giulia's smile deepens the lines around her eyes. "Good. Now. The family."
She pulls a small notebook from her apron pocket. The pages are worn soft at the edges, covered in neat handwriting.
"Everyone has their... preferences." She opens to a bookmarked page. "You'll need to know these. The maids, they try, but they miss things. That's where you come in."
I set down my fork. "Okay. I'm listening."
"Pietro." Giulia taps the page. "The boss. He takes his coffee at exactly 6 a.m. Strong. No sugar. If he's up before that, something is wrong—tell Nora. He likes his study kept a certain way. Papers never moved, even if they look messy. The mess has order."
I nod, committing it to memory.
"Nora." Her expression softens. "She's good for him. She prefers tea lately. She reads in the conservatory most mornings. Fresh flowers there every three days. Lilies give her headaches, so never lilies."
"No lilies. Got it."
"Vittoria." Giulia rolls her eyes fondly. "That girl lives on energy drinks and spite. Her room is her business—we don't touch it unless she asks. But her bathroom, she likes it stocked with specific products. I'll give you the list."
The notebook pages flip.
"Lorenzo doesn't live here anymore, but he visits for Sunday dinners. Always. He's particular about wine temperature. Sophia, his wife, she's sweet. Allergic to shellfish—make sure the kitchen knows if they're coming."
My head spins with information. I wish I'd brought my own notebook.
"And Nico." Giulia pauses. Something shifts in her expression. "Nico is... complicated."
No kidding.
"He works late. Eats at odd hours, if he eats at all. His room is off-limits to everyone except me." She meets my eyes. "And now you. He won't like it, but someone needs to make sure he has clean clothes and food that isn't three days old."
"What does he—" I hesitate. "What does he prefer?"
"Privacy. He prefers to be left alone. But what he needs is different. Fresh towels every day. Coffee strong enough to strip paint. Food left where he can find it without having to ask."
She closes the notebook.
"The maids handle the cleaning. You handle the details. The things people forget to ask for but notice when they're missing."
I take a long sip of coffee, processing. "That's... a lot of details."
"This family." Giulia leans forward. "They're not easy. But they're good people, underneath all the..." She waves her hand vaguely. "Complications."
Complications. That's one word for it.
"I'll write everything down for you," she continues. "But the most important thing? Pay attention. Watch what they reach for. What makes them tense. What makes them relax. That's how you learn what people need."
I think about Jack. How I learned to read his moods like weather patterns. The slight narrowing of his eyes that meant I'd said something wrong. The way his jaw tightened before he started in on everything I'd failed at that day.
I know how to watch people, I don't say. I learned the hard way.
"I can do that," I say instead.
Giulia studies me for a long moment. Whatever she sees makes her nod slowly.
"Yes." She stands, gathering our empty plates. "I think you can."
I set down my coffee mug, something nagging at the edge of my mind.
"What about the others?" I ask. "From the dinner. Aria, Carmela, Valentino?" I hesitate. "They mentioned another brother, Bruno?"
"Aria, Carmela, and Valentino live in Sicily." Her voice stays light. "The villa there. Aria only came to Chicago to help me get on the plane because I'm scared of it."
"That's sweet of her."
"That's Aria." Giulia sets the dish in the rack. "She mothers everyone. Even the people who should be mothering her."
"And Bruno?"
"Bruno has his own nurse. A specialist." She doesn't turn around. "He doesn't need anything from you."
"I just thought—"