Chapter 6
THEA
The uniform consists of a nice gray dress, a white apron, and sensible black flats that are a tad too small and pinch my toes.
“We’ll have new ones for you by tomorrow,” Oscar says, looking me over as I stand before a massive mirror in the den. “But do let me know if you start to blister.”
I can’t get over what I’m seeing.
“My outfit at the hotel was more like nurse’s scrubs,” I say, turning and taking note of the frill at the hem of my dress. “I feel like I’ve stepped into Downton Abbey or something. All I need is a feather duster and a British accent.”
Oscar chuckles. “The feather duster we can provide. I suppose you could practice the accent in your off time.” Another once-over. “But it suits you.”
His tone is warm and kind.
“Seriously,” I say, “I look like I’m about to serve tea to a dowager countess.”
His mouth twitches just a bit.
“The Moretti family doesn’t have a dowager countess, though Mr. Moretti’s great-aunt Carmela comes close.”
Despite everything, I grin.
“Now,” he says, “let us turn to the subject of your duties.”
Oscar takes me through the house, explaining my duties with the patience of a kindergarten teacher—dust the library, polish the silver, clean the linens in the guest rooms. “But,” he says, “do not go to the third floor—that’s Mr. Moretti’s private wing.
Stay out of his office unless specifically summoned.
Meals are served at eight, one, and seven.
Staff eats in the kitchen after the family is finished. ”
“Family?” I ask.
He nods. “Mr. Moretti’s cousins live on the estate,” he explains as we walk down yet another hallway lined with expensive art. “Miss Lara and Mr. Damian. They handle various aspects of the business.”
I don’t ask what aspects. I’m pretty sure I don’t want to know.
We’re halfway through the second-floor guest wing when I hear voices—young, loud, American—echoing up from the foyer.
“—telling you, it’s a supply chain issue, not a loyalty issue.”
“But you can’t have a supply chain without loyalty, Lara.”
Oscar sighs. “Speak of the devil, or devils, I should say.”
Two people round the corner. The first is a pretty young woman dressed in ripped jeans and a leather jacket, her dark hair pulled up in a high ponytail.
The other is a strikingly handsome man in his early twenties, his mouth moving while his eyes are locked onto his phone.
Both look effortlessly cool in a way I’ve never managed.
They stop when they see me.
The woman—Lara, evidently—looks me up and down, one eyebrow arched in curiosity. “She’s new.”
“Miss Teodora,” Oscar introduces me.
“I go by Thea,” I say.
They say nothing, both of them regarding me with a skeptical expression, like they’re not sure what to make of me.
“Thea,” Oscar continues, “this is Miss Lara and Mr. Damian Moretti.”
“Just Lara,” the woman says. She shoots out her hand; her fingers are pointed stiffly, like she just extended a knife in my direction. I take it. Her grip is firm, her nails painted matte black. “Oscar’s the only one who does the whole ‘Miss so-and-so’ thing. It’s weird.”
“Someone has to maintain propriety around here,” Oscar says with a faint smile.
I shake her hand, acutely aware of how ridiculous I must look in my uniform, especially compared to them.
“Nice to meet you.”
Damian glances up from his phone, dark eyes hidden behind a lock of brown hair. Then his gaze narrows as it tracks up and down my body. It’s a slow, appreciative scan that makes heat crawl up my neck.
“Damn,” he says, “Gabe’s got good taste.”
Lara elbows him. “Don’t be gross.”
“What? I’m just saying—”
“You’re objectifying the staff again. Not only is that gross on its own, but the power dynamic makes it even worse.”
“You call it objectifying, I call it appreciating.” He flashes me a grin that lets me know he’s not ashamed at all for his ogling. “No offense, bella. Italians appreciate curves, you know. It’s cultural.”
“Ignore him,” Lara says with a roll of her eyes. “This one’s such a pig that you’d think he was raised in a sty and not… this.” She gestures around her. “Anyway, Thea, how did you end up here? Is Oscar finally putting up job ads?”
There’s a beat of silence. I have zero idea whether or not these two know about the auction.
Oscar clears his throat. “Miss Thea is a recent addition to the household. We found her via word of mouth.”
Lara’s eyes narrow. “Uh-huh,” she says, something clicking into place. Her expression shifts. “Oh, wait—you’re the one from the auction!”
My stomach drops.
“Auction?” Damian looks up from his phone. “What the hell are you talking about?”
“The one Sasha Volkov’s been bitching about on Telegram,” she says, as if it’s nothing.
She slips her phone out of her back pocket.
“Kolya’s guy. He was supposed to buy some girl for the boss, but someone else swooped in and outbid him.
It caused a whole big thing.” She shows her screen to Damian. “See? Sasha’s still pissed.”
Damian cranes his neck, checking out the screen and letting out a low whistle.
“Damn, a mil? Shit, cuz is serious.”
I want to disappear into the floor.
“That’s—” I start, but my voice cracks. “That’s not—”
“Relax,” Lara says, pocketing her phone. “This is, uh—”
“We’ve seen worse,” Damian cuts in.
Lara nods. “Right, and part of our job is keeping our mouths shut and looking the other way.”
“But a lot of these guys can’t resist getting on Telegram and blabbing about private business,” Damian says. “So we listen in.”
“I think these auctions are pretty weird,” Lara says. “But they’re part of it all. Gabriel’s never really been into them, but…” She narrows her eyes, studies me for a second. “You seem different. You’re quite the acquisition.”
“I’m not an acquisition,” I say, the word coming out a little sharper than I intend. “I’m working here. That’s all.”
Damian smirks. “Sure, working in the same house as the guy who dropped a cool mil on you.”
“Mr. Damian,” Oscar says, his tone sharp with warning.
“Fine, fine.” Damian raises his hands in mock surrender. “I’ll behave, but can you blame me?” He looks at me again, that easy grin still in place. “Seriously, Thea, if you ever get tired of my brooding cousin, come find me. I’m way more fun.”
“Damian, stop.”
“What? I’m being friendly?”
“No, you’re being a creep,” Lara tells him.
Oscar steps between us, his expression tight. “Perhaps we should continue the tour, Miss Thea.”
“Yes, the tour. I like that idea.” I nod quickly, eager to escape.
As we walk away, I hear Lara ask Damian, “Think he’s going to keep her?”
“Gabe’s a fucking enigma. Always has been. But if he paid a million dollars for her, then, yeah, he’s keeping her.”
Oscar takes me to the library next. It’s impressive—a two-story room with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, rolling ladders, and the sort of leather and wood furniture that screams old money.
“This is where Signore Moretti spends most of his evenings,” Oscar says, “when he’s not working, though he is nearly always working.”
I run my fingers along the spines of the books. Dostoyevsky. Machiavelli. Sun Tzu. A whole shelf of Italian philosophy I can’t pronounce. I see history, art, and a small section containing everything written by Jane Austen in various editions.
“He’s read all of these?” I ask.
“Most of them. He’s a voracious reader.”
I slip the copy of The Prince from the shelf, the pages worn from use. There’s a note scribbled in the margin in tight, precise handwriting: Power requires the perception of power. But power can also exist with mere perception.
“He never married?” I hear myself ask.
Oscar pauses in the doorway. “No.”
“No kids?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
Oscar’s expression softens. “I couldn’t say, Miss Thea. Mr. Moretti is a private man. He doesn’t share his reasons for much of anything. As you saw in the hallway, not even his kin are clued in to his motives and doings.”
I slip the book back into its place. “What exactly is the business?”
He sighs. “Mr. Moretti is the head of the Camorra.”
“Camorra?”
“The Italian Mafia.”
“Ah.”
I can’t believe that this place, this house I’m in, is ground zero for the goddamn New York mob.
“When he steps down,” Oscar continues, “or God forbid, something were to happen to him…” He trails off. “There must be a successor. Traditionally, it would be a son. But matters are so dire that even a woman would be considered.”
“How open-minded of them,” I reply, a small curve to my lips.
Oscar matches it with one of his own. “Believe me, I’ve seen more than my share of capable matriarchs in my day. But as for the rest of the Camorra, let’s just say their views are stuck in another century. Regardless, Mr. Moretti has no children. The king is without an heir. It’s troubling.”
“What would happen if he were to die without an heir?”
“Chaos,” he replies. “War.”
“Would I be free?”
Oscar shakes his head. “Not even close. You, at the moment, are the property of Mr. Moretti. If he were to pass, the rest of the families in the city would begin fighting over his possessions. More likely than not, you’d be claimed by some upstart gangster, looking for a trophy.”
I shiver at the thought, even though being a possession at all still does not sit well with me.
“Sounds so Bronze Age.”
“Some things never change. Civilization might appear civilized from certain angles, but beneath the veneer, there will always be men like Mr. Moretti.”
“So the rest of the family wants him to have a kid?”
“They would use the term ‘securing the family line,’ but yes.”
I think about Gabriel—cold, controlled, untouchable. I try to imagine him with a wife, a child, and a life that isn’t this.
But I can’t.
“What’s he like?” I ask. “Really?”
Oscar considers the question. Then he looks at me. “He is just. He is ruthless. He protects those under his care with absolute loyalty. And he doesn’t do anything without reason, Miss Thea. If he brought you here, it’s because he believes you belong.”
“But I don’t belong here,” I whisper.
“Perhaps. Or perhaps you simply don’t know it yet.”
I spend the rest of the morning working, cataloguing exits.
As far as I can tell, there are four on the ground floor—front door, kitchen door, back patio door, and the servants’ exit near the laundry room.
Windows on the second floor could work, but it’s a fifteen-or-so-foot drop down. If I didn’t have a very soft place to land, I’d easily break an ankle. The third and fourth floors are obviously a no-go. Not to mention that both are off-limits.
By the time Oscar dismisses me for lunch, my feet are aching and my brain is buzzing.
I eat in the servants’ room next to the kitchen with the rest of the staff. There’s about a dozen of them, many of them pretending like I don’t exist.
I don’t catch all the names, but there’s a cook named Marta, and a groundskeeper named Tom, who nods at me once before going back to his soup.
Thankfully, the afternoon goes by quickly, and before I know it, the day’s over. Oscar tells me to relax until dinner, sending me off to do whatever I want within reason.
I go to my room, wasting no time getting out of my silly uniform and back into something comfortable.
The closet is calling out to me to explore further, to really peruse what’s in there.
As far as I can tell, aside from Oscar and me, none of the other staff lives in the house.
There’s a servant’s quarters in a separate building, but Oscar didn’t show me around there.
I bet none of them have a walk-in closet filled with a collection of shoes worth more than what I make in a year.
What I used to make in a year.
Suddenly overwhelmed, I kick off my shoes, fall onto the bed, and allow myself a few moments to sob into the pillow.