Chapter 2 - The Cleansing of the Estate
The silence in the grand dining room was heavy enough to crush a man.
Not a single employee moved. The junior maids, the butler, and the kitchen staff kept their eyes glued to the polished floor, terrified that meeting Alessandro Moretti’s gaze would mark them as accomplices to the cruelty.
Alessandro slowly unbuttoned his dark wool coat, slid it off his broad shoulders, and handed it to one of the armed bodyguards standing behind him. He didn't look angry in the traditional sense; he looked like a judge about to read a verdict that had already been decided weeks ago.
“You’ve worked for this family for eight years, Beatrice,” Alessandro said, his voice dropping into a low, terrifying register.
“E-eight years, yes, Mr. Moretti!” Beatrice gasped out, clutching her chest, a desperate flicker of hope returning to her eyes. “I have kept this estate running flawlessly! I have sacrificed my evenings, my weekends—"
“And in those eight years,” Alessandro interrupted smoothly, stepping over the broken porcelain, “you failed to learn the single most important rule of the Moretti name.”
He stopped two feet in front of her, his tall frame looming over her trembling body.
“We do not mistreat people who are weaker than us,” Alessandro said softly, his eyes flashing with a dangerous, lethal light. “And we certainly do not humiliate someone who shows kindness under my roof.”
Beatrice began to tremble violently. “Mr. Moretti, please... I didn't know he was your father! He arrived unannounced in a cab! He was wearing that old jacket—”
“My father can wear rags if he chooses,” Alessandro snapped, his voice sharp as a razor blade. “He built the foundation of every single building, hotel, and shipping line that pays your salary. If he chooses to sit in my dining room, he sits at the head of the table. And if a maid has the humanity to bring him a meal when my chief housekeeper is too blind to recognize him, that maid is worth ten of you.”
Alessandro turned his back on her, looking toward his head of security, a broad-shouldered man named Marco.
“Marco,” Alessandro ordered calmly. “Escort Beatrice off the property immediately. She is not to return to her quarters. Have her personal belongings packed into boxes and left at the front gate by noon.”
Beatrice let out a horrified shriek. “No! Mr. Moretti, please! You can't throw me out like this! I have nowhere to go! My references—"
“Your references are gone,” Alessandro said without turning around. “And if I ever hear of you contacting Meline, or any member of my staff, your pension will be completely liquidated to pay for the distress you caused today.”
Marco stepped forward, grabbing Beatrice firmly by her arm—the exact same arm she had used to shove Meline—and roughly dragged the weeping, screaming woman out through the heavy mahogany doors.
The remaining staff stood in absolute terror, waiting for the Don’s wrath to fall on them next.
Alessandro looked at the four kitchen workers standing near the pantry.
“Every single one of you who stood by and watched a fellow worker get shoved to the floor will have two weeks of pay deducted,” Alessandro announced, his voice cold and unyielding. “That money will be transferred directly to Meline Pierce as a bonus for her service today.”
A soft gasp went around the room, but no one dared to object.
Alessandro turned back toward his father. The terrifying, cold demeanor he carried as the head of a massive crime syndicate vanished instantly, replaced by a quiet, profound respect. He walked over to Giovanni, taking the old man’s arm to support him.
“You should have let me know you were taking a cab from the farm, Dad,” Alessandro said gently. “I would have sent the car for you.”
“I wanted to see if your people still remembered how to treat a stranger, Alessandro,” Giovanni replied, his weathered face breaking into a soft, knowing smile. He looked over at Meline, who was standing nervously near the broken soup bowl, holding her stained apron. “It seems only one of them passed the test.”
Giovanni stepped away from his son and walked over to Meline. Despite his limp, he stood tall, looking at the young woman with deep, genuine warmth.
“What is your name, child?” the old Don asked gently.
“Meline, sir,” she whispered, her voice still trembling slightly. “Meline Pierce.”
Giovanni reached out his calloused hand, taking hers, completely ignoring the soup stains on her uniform. “Thank you, Meline. Not for the soup, but for treating an old man like a human being when you thought I had nothing to give you in return.”
Meline felt a lump form in her throat. All her life, because of her height and her plus-size frame, people had treated her as if she took up too much space in the world. They ignored her, mocked her, or talked over her as if she were invisible. For the first time in years, someone was looking at her as if she were the most important person in the room.
“You were cold, sir,” Meline said simply, offering a small, honest smile. “Anyone would have done it.”
“No,” Alessandro spoke up, stepping to his father's side, his dark eyes locked onto Meline’s face with an intensity that made her heart skip a beat. “Most people would have walked past him. Beatrice did. The rest of the staff did.”
Alessandro looked down at her stained uniform, then looked into her dark brown eyes.
“Meline,” Alessandro said, his voice smooth and firm. “As of this moment, you are no longer a junior maid at this estate.”
Meline’s heart dropped into her stomach. A sudden wave of panic washed over her. Was he firing her anyway? Was she going to lose her room above the garage?
“Sir, please,” Meline begged softly, her hands clenching into fists. “I need this job. My grandfather’s debt—”
“You’re not being fired, Meline,” Alessandro interrupted gently, a rare, faint smile touching the corner of his lips. “You are being promoted. As of today, you are the Head of Household Management for the Moretti estate. You will report directly to me, your salary will be tripled, and you will move into the private suite in the east wing.”
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Meline stared at him in complete, speech-bound shock. “Tripled...? The east wing...?”
“And your first official duty,” Giovanni added with a warm laugh, tapping his walking stick against the marble floor, “is to sit down at this grand table with me and share a hot bowl of soup.”
