Chapter 2 - Shadows in the West Wing and the Unforgivable DemotionThe next morning brought pale autumn sunlight and the sharp, unmistakable smell of bitter espresso mixed with foreign hostility. Katarina Moretti had risen before dawn. When I walked down to the kitchen at eight o’clock, expecting Mrs. Higgins, our longtime housekeeper, I found a scene straight out of a 1950s period drama.
Mrs. Higgins was standing near the pantry, looking flustered and apologetic, while Katarina sat at the marble island sipping black coffee from a porcelain cup that clearly didn't belong to the everyday set.
“Elena,” Katarina said without looking up. “You sleep late. In this house, things begin at six. My husband expected his breakfast at six-thirty sharp, and his shirts pressed by seven.”
I paused, holding my mug of tea. “Good morning, Katarina. We aren't in 1995 anymore, and Dante isn't his father. Also, Mrs. Higgins works for us, not as your personal servant.”
Katarina slowly set her cup down. The ceramic clicked sharply against the marble. She turned her head, her sharp eyes narrowing behind designer frames. “She worked for me for twenty years before you stumbled into this family with your middle-class sensibilities and modern degree. A Moretti wife does not sleep past sunrise. She manages the estate, she oversees the staff, and above all, she respects the foundation built before her.”
“I respect history,” I said, my voice steady, though my pulse raced. “I just don't live in the past. If you’d like breakfast prepared, Mrs. Higgins can make it, or I can show you where the automated machine is.”
Katarina stood up, towering over me despite her slight frame. The sheer aura of intimidation she projected was terrifying—it was the same aura that had kept rival capos in line while Alessandro Moretti negotiated territory deals across the East Coast.
“You think because Dante married you in some quiet civil ceremony and put a rock on your finger that you're a true matriarch?” she hissed softly, stepping closer. “You are a placeholder, Elena. A temporary soft spot for a man who carries too much blood on his hands. When the real storms hit this family, you will break.”
Before I could answer, heavy footsteps echoed on the tile floor.
Dante stepped into the kitchen. His jacket was off, shirtsleeves rolled up to his forearms, revealing the intricate dark ink winding around his wrists—scars and tattoos of a life born in violence. He looked from his mother to me, reading the tension in the air instantly.
“Is there a problem here?” Dante’s voice dropped an octave, flat and dangerously cold.
Katarina smoothed the front of her silk blouse, her expression shifting instantly to one of wounded innocence—a masterclass in manipulation. “Not at all, Dante. I was simply telling your wife how things are traditionally run in this household. Trying to help her adjust. She seems a bit... overwhelmed by the responsibilities.”
Dante didn’t smile. He didn’t nod. He walked straight past his mother, stopped inches from me, and wrapped his arm around my waist, pulling me gently against his side. Then, he turned his cold, calculating gaze onto the woman who had given him life.
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“Elena is never overwhelmed,” Dante said, every word like falling ice. “And she doesn’t need your help running my house, Mother. If you find the modern way things are handled here to be unsatisfactory, the private car can take you back to Connecticut by noon.”
The kitchen went dead silent. Mrs. Higgins vanished into the pantry. Katarina’s jaw tightened imperceptibly, a rare crack in her icy armor.
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