Chapter 7
THEA
It’s been three days since the auction.
Three days of dusting bookshelves and polishing silver, pretending I’m not a prisoner in some billionaire mobster’s mansion. Three days of trying to memorize staff and guard routines, all while watching Gabriel from a distance.
And my goddamn traitorous mind won’t stop playing that first night over and over in my head. All I need to do is close my eyes, and I can feel his fingers inside of me, his thumb pressing against my clit in that perfect way that made me see stars.
By afternoon, I’m in the main living room, a grand space with a gorgeous marble fireplace and a massive, sprawling sectional that looks like it’s never been sat upon.
Oscar assigned me this wing of the first floor with orders to dust, vacuum, and make sure everything is beautiful for guests, though I haven’t seen a single guest since I arrived.
There’s a collection of artifacts on the mantel. I’m far from an expert, but I recognize a Roman coin, a piece of pottery with faded Greek lettering, and a scarab carved from jade. Each one is labeled with a date and location in that same neat handwriting I saw in the copy of The Prince.
Pompeii, 2019. Athens, 2021. Cairo, 2018.
I lean closer, studying the scarab. It’s beautiful, intricate, and impossibly detailed. But it’s more suitable for a museum, not a living room.
It appears Gabriel collects archaeological finds.
I try to picture him dressed in a sleek suit, standing in a dusty excavation site, those dark eyes fixed on a thousand-year-old relic as he studies it carefully.
Gabriel’s a man who reads Machiavelli and kills people and carefully preserves fragments of lost civilizations.
What the hell am I supposed to do with that mishmash of information?
I tear my eyes away from the artifacts and move to the nearby bookshelf, running my duster along the spines. More philosophy, art history, and an entire section on Renaissance architecture. Tucked between two enormous coffee table books is a slim paperback.
I can’t help but pull it out.
The Last Days of Pompeii by Edward Bulwer-Lytton.
The pages are dog-eared, the cover worn soft. Someone’s read this. A lot.
I flip it open and find more margin notes, whole passages underlined, asterisks and question marks scattered throughout. One section is marked so heavily that the page is nearly unreadable.
We live in an age of ruins, where the past speaks louder than the present.
Beneath it, in Gabriel’s now-familiar neat handwriting: Only if you’re listening.
My eyes linger on those words.
“Well, this is certainly cozy.”
The voice behind me nearly makes me drop the book. Instead, I quickly slide it back into its place and turn around.
A woman stands in the doorway. She’s tall and polished, with sharp features.
Her blonde hair falls onto her shoulders in waves, her eyes blue and piercing.
She’s pretty. I can’t quite tell her age, but she looks a little younger than Gabriel.
Maybe early forties. She’s wearing a cream blouse and tailored black slacks.
Everything about her is professional, like she just walked out of a law firm ad.
“I’m sorry,” I say quickly, stepping away from the bookshelf. “I was just dusting.”
“I can see that. Or, more accurately, I can see that you weren’t dusting.” Her gaze flicks over me—the uniform, the duster in my hand—her mouth curving into something that’s not quite a smile. “You must be the new girl.”
“Thea,” I say.
“Amanda Reed.” She doesn’t approach, doesn’t offer her hand. “I’m Mr. Moretti’s attorney.”
Of course she is.
She walks into the room, her gaze sweeping over the space like she owns it, like she’s been here a thousand times before and wants to make sure nothing’s out of place.
“How are you handling it?” she asks, her tone light. “Working here, I mean. It must be quite the adjustment.”
“It’s fine,” I say carefully. I get a weird vibe from this woman, like she’s someone I need to be guarded around.
“Fine,” she echoes, then steps over to the mantel and picks up the scarab case, examining it. I can tell she’s seen it before. “Gabriel’s always had eclectic taste—ancient relics, rare books, and now…” Her eyes slide back to me. “You.”
Heat creeps up my neck, tension snaking its way into the room.
“I’m just staff,” I tell her.
“Right. Staff.” She sets the case down, then turns to face me fully. There’s something about her that’s off-putting. “Let me give you some advice, Thea, woman to woman.”
I don’t want her advice, and I almost tell her that, catching myself at the last moment.
“Gabriel Moretti is not a man you want to get close to,” she says. “He’s dangerous. Complicated. And he doesn’t—” She pauses and looks away, choosing her words carefully. “He doesn’t do well with distractions.”
“I’m not trying to distract anyone. I’m just here to work.”
“Good. Very good. Exactly the right attitude. Because, trust me, if you think that what’s happening here is anything else, you’ve got another thing coming.
” Her smile sharpens. “Men like Gabriel aren’t interested in women like you.
They don’t bring them home to play house.
They use them. And when they’re done…” she trails off, the implication clear.
Does she know?
My throat tightens. I can tell she’s trying to bully me, to intimidate me, to make sure I know my place.
“I know what I am,” I say quietly.
“Do you?” Amanda tilts her head, her gaze traveling down my body with the precision of a scalpel. “Because from where I’m standing, you look like a girl who’s already getting ideas. You look like a girl who thinks that because Gabriel threw down a little cash, he actually wants her.”
The words land like a slap.
“He doesn’t,” Amanda continues, her voice soft, almost kind.
“He wants you like he wants those.” She gestures toward the artifacts on the mantel, all of them presented beautifully and secured behind glass cases.
“He wants a little novelty, something that he hasn’t had before.
And when he’s bored, he’ll stick you behind glass and barely notice you. ”
“You don’t know me,” I say, my tone sharpening. “You have no idea who I am, or what I want.”
“You want Gabriel’s attention,” she says. “It’s obvious. But here’s something else that’s obvious—you need a little reality check, my dear. Gabriel is handsome, powerful, wealthy beyond compare. Do you really think he’d be interested in someone like you?”
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
Her eyes drag up and down my figure again, making it clear what she means.
“Let’s just say that if he does intend on putting you behind glass when he’s done with you, he’ll need to place a special order. Not sure if display cases come in your size.”
That does it.
I want to say something cutting, something that will wipe that smug expression off her face.
But all I can think of is how Liza sighed whenever I reached for seconds, how Sissy looked at my body with something that always resembled pity, all of the times I caught my reflection in the mirror and wished I could disappear.
“Listen,” I start, anger bracing my voice. “I don’t know wh—”
“That’s enough.”
I pause, my finger raised in the air, pointing at Amanda. We both turn to see Gabriel standing in the doorway. I close my mouth, letting my arm fall to my side.
I have no idea how long he’s been standing there. Judging by the hard expression on his face, I guess long enough.
“Gabe,” Amanda says smoothly. “I was just—”
“Leaving.” He doesn’t raise his voice. He doesn’t need to. “Now.”
Amanda’s smile falters. “Gabriel, I didn’t mean—”
“I know exactly what you meant.” He steps slowly into the room, suddenly seeming like he’s ten feet tall. His dark eyes are narrowed, locked onto her. “And you know damn well better than to speak to anyone in my household that way. Don’t make me remind you of your place, Amanda.”
Her eyes narrow right back at him. Then she takes in a deep breath.
“Per favore, mi parlerai così davanti alla servitù?”
I don’t speak a word of Italian. But I catch per favore—please? And the way her eyes flick to me on the last word, servitù, I’m guessing refers to the servant?
Gabriel’s jaw tightens. When he responds, his voice is low, controlled, lethal.
“Sai benissimo che lei è molto più che 'la servitù.' Ora vattene. Non te lo chiederò di nuovo.”
The words come out so fast, and I don’t understand any of them. But I do understand the tone, the finality.
Amanda’s face flushes. For a moment, she looks like she might argue.
She doesn’t. Instead, she snatches her briefcase from the table and strides past him, heels clicking sharply against the marble.
She opens the door roughly and departs with a slam.
I stand there, duster in hand, face burning, my chest tight with humiliation and fury.
Gabriel turns his attention to me.
“Thea—”
I cut him off. “I should get back to work.”
“She was out of line.”
“She wasn’t wrong.”
“Yes, she was.”
I shake my head and look away. “It doesn’t matter.”
“It matters to me.”
A strange blend of emotions rolls through me. I don’t know what to say or do.
“I need to get back to work.”
I take one more steeling breath, then walk out with as much poise and confidence as I can muster. Gabriel says nothing, but I can feel his eyes on me as I leave.