Chapter 5 - Caught in the CrosshairsVanessa stopped dead in her tracks.
Her sharp eyes swept across the bedroom, instantly noticing that the rug in front of the wardrobe was slightly bunched up.
She didn't speak.
She simply walked over to the closet, pulled the doors wide open, and reached behind the hanging coats.
Her fingers tested the wood paneling.
It was securely locked in place, but the dust on the bottom ledge had been disturbed.
Slowly, Vanessa turned her head around, her gaze locking onto me where I stood frozen near the doorway, holding a feather duster I had grabbed off the side table in blind desperation.
"Claire," she whispered, her voice dangerously soft. "What are you doing in my bedroom at one o'clock in the morning?"
I forced my legs to stop shaking, lifting the feather duster with as much fake composure as I could muster.
"Mrs. Gable asked me to check the drapery tassels in the East Wing suites, ma'am," I lied, my voice tight. "I noticed the door wasn't fully latched and thought I should come in and finish dusting."
Vanessa stared at me for three agonizing seconds.
Then, a cold, predatory smile crept onto her lips.
"You're a terrible liar, Claire," she said smoothly, walking toward me with the slow, deliberate grace of a cat cornering a mouse. "People who are just dusting don't look like they've just seen a ghost."
She stopped two feet away from me, her perfume thick and cloying in the confined space.
"Did you open my safe?"
"I don't even know the combination, ma'am," I replied, holding my ground.
Vanessa’s hand shot out with terrifying speed, her manicured nails digging painfully into my forearm.
"You think because Luca defended you at dinner tonight that you're invincible?" she hissed, her face contorting into an ugly snarl. "You're a peasant. A servant living paycheck to paycheck, supporting a crippled mother in a rundown apartment in Queens. One word from me, and Luca won't just fire you—he'll make sure you never find work in this city again. And your mother? Her rent subsidy will vanish by morning."
Pain flared in my arm, but I refused to look away from her eyes.
Because deep down, beneath her fierce threats, I saw something else.
Fear.
She knew I had seen the documents. She knew her entire multi-million-dollar scheme hung by a thread.
"You're afraid of him, aren't you?" I whispered, my voice steadying. "You're marrying Luca for his money, but you're terrified he'll find out you're selling his son behind his back."
Vanessa’s face drained of color.
Before she could raise her hand to strike me, the door to the suite flew open with a deafening crash.
Luca Moretti stood in the doorway.
His black suit jacket was off, his white shirt sleeves rolled up to his forearms, revealing the dark ink of intricate tattoos wrapping around his muscular wrists.
He took in the scene instantly: Vanessa’s hand gripping my arm, my pale face, and the open wardrobe behind her.
"Let go of her," Luca said.
The command didn't carry volume. It carried absolute death.
Vanessa slowly released my arm, her expression shifting instantly into an injured mask as she turned toward him.
"Luca, thank God," she stammered, tears miraculously springing to her eyes. "I caught her red-handed. She was going through my personal belongings—she’s been stealing from my jewelry box!"
I opened my mouth to speak, but Luca raised a single hand, silencing us both.
He walked slowly into the room, his dark gaze fixed entirely on Vanessa.
"Claire doesn't steal," Luca said quietly.
Vanessa blinked, her voice trembling. "How can you possibly defend her over me? We are getting married in less than forty-eight hours!"
Luca stopped right in front of her, his height towering over her slender frame.
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"Because," Luca said, pulling the folded photographs I had secretly synced to the household server from his vest pocket and letting them flutter to the floor between them, "she didn't come in here to steal jewelry. She came to find out why my fiancée is conspiring with the Brighton Beach syndicate to sell my son."
Vanessa looked down at the photographs scattered across the Persian rug, and the color drained completely from her face.
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