The Captain (Those (Damn!) Texas Dantes #6)

Chapter 2

“DON’T PRETEND you’re shy now, piccola.”

Tommaso Carbone’s fingers closed around Elia’s wrist as though she were an ornament he’d decided to inspect more closely. The grip wasn’t hard enough to bruise, not in a way anyone could object to, but it was firm enough to remind her that resistance would be noticed.

She didn’t flinch. She’d learned years ago that flinching entertained them.

Lorenzo Donati lounged across the velvet sofa, one ankle resting on his knee, crystal glass dangling from his fingers as if he were bored with the entire world.

His brother, Dario, leaned against the piano, smirking as though everything in the room existed solely for his amusement.

They’d been drinking since midday, and the air in the Donati lounge carried the scent of amber liquor and expensive smoke.

Elia stood between them in a simple black serving dress, hem modest, sleeves plain, the fabric inexpensive but spotless.

An apron had been discarded at some point during the evening so she would look less like staff and more like something decorative.

They liked to parade her that way when it suited them, the servant dressed up just enough to confuse the line between household help and possession.

Tommaso tugged her closer. “You’ll miss us when you’re gone, won’t you?”

“I’m not going anywhere,” she insisted.

Dario laughed. “Not yet.”

Lorenzo’s gaze sharpened. “Once the old man’s heart gives out, everything changes.”

They all looked at her then, not as a person, but as an asset waiting to be reallocated.

“Careful,” Dario added lightly, snapping his fingers once as if summoning her closer. “You’re still staff in this house. Kitchen girl, remember?”

Lorenzo crooked two fingers. “My glass. It’s empty.”

Tommaso’s thumb brushed the inside of her wrist in a mockery of affection. “You know what Vittorio Donati says about contracts. They protect what matters.”

“And what is that?” she asked, keeping her tone even.

“Leverage,” Lorenzo answered, swirling his drink. “Father says there’s always leverage buried somewhere if you know how to look.”

Dario pushed away from the piano. “The Severins think they’re untouchable. Arrogant. They’ll sign anything if it fattens their pockets.”

Tommaso grinned. “Especially if they don’t bother reading the fine print about the ports.”

Elia stepped away long enough to retrieve the decanter from the sideboard and refill Lorenzo’s glass without being asked twice. She kept her eyes lowered as she handed it back.

“Good,” he murmured. “She learns.”

Elia didn’t care about the fine print. She didn’t care about port access rights or shell holdings or whatever invisible war the Donatis and Severins waged beneath polished smiles. She cared about the door behind her and how many steps it would take to reach it without drawing attention.

Tommaso Carbone leaned closer, his breath warm with whiskey. “You’ll be very useful when the time comes.”

His hand dropped, fingers brushing the small of her back where a servant’s apron normally tied before drifting lower to cup her buttocks. A reminder of where she belonged.

“I’ll be useful how?” she asked, stepping clear of his hold.

His smile turned crude. “Don’t make me spell it out.”

Dario chuckled. “Black suits you. Makes you look like the servant you are. And a hell of a lot less innocent.”

Lorenzo’s gaze flicked over her. “After Vittorio dies, we’ll have to decide how to divide certain assets.”

“You could give her to your best friend,” Tommaso suggested lightly.

Silence followed that statement, heavy and deliberate.

Elia’s stomach tightened, but her expression didn’t change. She’d long ago mastered the art of stillness, of letting words strike and pass through her as if they meant nothing at all.

“Don’t be vulgar,” Lorenzo said lazily, though his eyes weren’t displeased. “There’s a sequence to these things.”

“Sequence,” Dario repeated, amused. “Yes. First we secure the ports. Then we secure the girl.”

Tommaso reached over to give her ass a light slap. “The Severins will never see it coming.”

The door opened before Elia could respond.

The housekeeper stepped inside, posture rigid, eyes lowered. “Madam requests that Elia serve drinks in the drawing room.” She glanced at Lorenzo and then away again. “And she also asks you to join them, Mr. Lorenzo.”

The housekeeper was always kind in the cautious way of someone who understood her place and Elia’s.

She never spoke more than necessary, never lingered long enough to draw attention, but she made small mercies where she could—a fresh towel folded without comment, a plate set aside when the kitchen ran late.

It was the only kindness Elia had ever known in this house where she owed so much money.

It wasn’t only the housekeeper. The cook slipped her sugared almonds at Christmas. The groundskeeper mended the sole of her shoe without telling anyone. The younger maids watched the sons too closely whenever Elia was summoned, as if they could intercept trouble by sheer vigilance.

No one spoke of it aloud. They all understood what would happen if Bianca suspected divided loyalty. But in quick glances, in shared silence in the scullery, in the way someone always found a reason to linger nearby when voices rose, they made it clear she wasn’t alone among them.

Elia inclined her head. “Of course, Mrs. Johnson. I’ll go immediately.”

Tommaso’s hand slid away as though she’d been dismissed by a higher authority. Lorenzo raised his glass in mock salute. Dario winked at her as if they shared a secret.

She turned and walked out without looking back.

The hallway beyond the lounge stretched long and gilded, lined with portraits of men who’d built empires from silence and blood. She moved down it with measured steps, her pulse steady, her thoughts focused on one singular, constant truth.

She wouldn’t remain here forever. Somehow she had to find a way out.

The drawing room doors stood open.

Bianca Donati sat near the fireplace in cream silk, posture immaculate, hands folded in her lap.

The armchair beside her remained conspicuously empty, a folded wool blanket draped over its back as if its usual occupant had only just risen.

Lorenzo stood near the far window, a fresh drink in hand, having slipped into the room while Elia was fetching the requested tray, his presence silent enough to go unnoticed until now.

Don Vittorio hadn’t come down to dinner in three nights.

The doctor’s car had been seen twice at the side entrance.

And Bianca now controlled who went upstairs.

No one said it outright, but everyone understood that access to the patriarch had become…

curated. Across from her sat a man Elia had never seen before.

He was tall even seated, shoulders broad beneath a charcoal suit that fit him with understated precision.

White-blond hair brushed his collar, not styled to impress but cut to obey.

Pale green eyes, cool and unblinking, took in the room without visible reaction.

One hand rested loosely against the arm of the chair, fingers relaxed, the pose of someone accustomed to command without effort.

Magnus Severin.

She guessed at his identity from the rumors that drifted through the servants’ corridor when powerful men were discussed in hushed voices.

The Captain. The Severin who never lost a contract.

She’d memorized the name long ago, attaching it to descriptions of white-blond hair and eyes the color of cold glass.

“Elia,” Bianca said, as though she were addressing a servant who knew her place. “Pour a drink for Mr. Severin.”

“Yes, Madam.” Elia crossed the room with a tray balanced steadily between her palms. The crystal decanter caught the firelight, scattering amber light across the polished wood table. She poured without spilling a drop.

Only then did Magnus Severin lift his gaze.

It wasn’t a glance. It was an assessment.

The room seemed to recalibrate around that single, unhurried look. Conversations lowered without anyone consciously choosing silence. Even Lorenzo’s restless energy stilled, as though instinct recognized rank before pride could object.

Magnus’s pale green eyes were calm, unreadable, and utterly still—ice over deep water, concealing strength rather than emptiness.

There was no hunger in them, no crude curiosity.

He didn’t smile. He didn’t allow surprise or interest to flicker across his face.

He simply looked at her as if weighing consequence, as if measuring risk and value at the same time.

It was the gaze of a man who commanded fleets and men who would die before disappointing him. The Captain. Not loud. Not theatrical. Just absolute.

And when those eyes settled fully on her, Elia had the disorienting sense that he wasn’t measuring what she could give, but what she was worth.

She froze. No one had ever looked at her that way. Instead it had been with hunger. With ownership. With a careless appraisal she endured daily. This was different. This was recognition.

She set the glass before him. “Sir.” Her hands remained steady even as she dropped her gaze the way she’d been taught. Never hold eye contact too long, never presume equality.

His fingers closed around the heavy tumbler as he accepted it, though he didn’t touch her. “Thank you.” The sound of his voice was low and regulated, without strain or excess. It settled against her skin like a claim.

Bianca watched the exchange with subtle interest, her gaze moving between them, calculation hidden behind polished composure.

“We were discussing the future,” Bianca said lightly. “Partnerships. Alliances. Continuity.” She paused deliberately. “Contracts.”

Magnus didn’t look away from Elia. “Continuity is valuable, as are contracts.”

“So is loyalty,” Bianca added smoothly.

Elia stepped back, tray held against her waist, unsure whether to remain or retreat. Bianca made the decision for her.

“Stay,” she instructed.