Chapter 6
A sharp, unexpected snort of laughter broke from one of the junior capos sitting near the back of the room, quickly muffled behind a cough as Gabriel shot a lethal glare in his direction. But the tension in the grand dining room had irrevocably shifted. The cold, sterile fear that usually defined a Moretti gathering had melted into a stunned, fragile wonder. Gabriel stood up, holding the white carnation in one hand and the silver signet ring in the other. He looked across the polished marble floors, past the terrified dinner guests, and locked his eyes onto his head of security, a hulking giant named Bruno stationed by the service entrance. "Bruno," Gabriel called out, his voice echoing cleanly through the high-vaulted space. "Boss?" Bruno stepped forward, his massive frame shifting uneasily under his black suit. "Escort Miss Bellini to her private quarters," Gabriel ordered, his tone absolute and utterly unnegotiable. "Have her packed and out of this estate by midnight. If she attempts to take a single item that does not belong to her, or contacts a single reporter in the city, throw her in the lower holding cells until I have time to deal with her treason." Vanessa shrieked, her hands flying to her face in utter disbelief. "You can't do this to me, Gabriel! I am a Bellini! My father will declare war on your syndicate before dawn!" "Your father gave up his syndicate voting rights when he signed the territorial neutrality pact last year," Gabriel reminded her coldly, waving a dismissive hand. "Bruno, take her away. Her voice is giving me a headache." Two more armed enforcers flanked Vanessa, grabbing her roughly by the elbows as she screamed and kicked, her red silk gown rustling frantically against the marble floor as she was dragged out through the heavy double doors. The doors slammed shut behind her, plunging the dining room back into a heavy, resonant quiet. Gabriel turned his attention back to Rachel, whose shoulders dropped slightly as if an invisible, crushing weight had finally been lifted from her back. He walked slowly toward her, his dark eyes taking in her worn housekeeping uniform—the frayed cuffs, the simple black fabric, the modest lace apron. It was a uniform that belonged to a servant, yet she carried herself with more regal grace than any high-society debutante who had ever graced his table. "You've been working in my house for three months, Rachel," Gabriel said, a mixture of disbelief and awe coloring his deep baritone. "You wore that dress, you cleaned these floors, you served my guests... and I didn't even know you existed." "You don't look at the help, Mr. Moretti," Rachel replied quietly, her chin lifting with a touch of defensive pride. "You only look at the people who threaten your empire or share your wealth. To men like you, a maid is just part of the furniture." Gabriel flinched. The words struck him harder than any bullet ever had. He realized with a sickening jolt of guilt how many times he must have walked past her in the corridors, completely blind to the fact that his best friend's widow and child were living under his roof, scrubbing the very marble he walked upon.
