Chapter 2 - The Golden Cage
Within forty-eight hours, Laura’s world had shrunk to the third floor of the D’Angelo manor.
Her new quarters were not the cramped, drafty staff room near the boiler room where she had spent the last six months. She had been moved into an adjoining suite just down the private corridor from Arturo’s master bedroom. The room was breathtaking: silk draperies in muted slate gray, a king-sized mattress covered in Egyptian cotton, and a private marble bath that smelled of eucalyptus and French lavender soap. It was a palace, but it was also a fortress. Two armed men in crisp charcoal suits stood guard at the foot of the stairs leading up to the floor, checking every cart that passed.
Every afternoon at precisely one-fifty, Laura brewed the Earl Grey tea in the small private pantry Arturo had installed for her. She learned his habits with the sharp precision of a survivor. Arturo woke before dawn, ran five miles along the private estate grounds accompanied by two Belgian Malinois, and spent his mornings in locked-door meetings with men who smelled of cheap cigars and cold sweat.
By two, the heavy oak doors of his office would open, and Laura would walk in, carrying the silver tray.
“Set it down,” he murmured on a rainy Tuesday, barely looking up from a leather ledger filled with columns of numbers and foreign names.
Laura placed the saucer quietly beside his elbow, turning to leave immediately as she had conditioned herself to do.
“Stay,” he commanded, his pen stopping mid-stroke.
Laura froze by the leather armchairs, her heart doing a frantic tap-dance against her ribs. “Is there something wrong with the tea, Mr. D’Angelo?”
“Sit down, Laura.”
She hesitated, then perched on the edge of the opposing leather armchair, smoothing her black skirt over her knees. He had replaced her cheap agency uniforms with high-end dresses made of dark wool and silk, tailored to her exact measurements. They were modest, covering her from collarbone to knee, but the luxurious fabric clung to her curves in a way that made her cheeks burn whenever he looked at her.
Arturo leaned back, setting his gold fountain pen down. The harsh daylight filtering through the rain-streaked windows carved deep shadows into the angles of his face. He looked exhausted, lines of strain etched around his mouth, the weight of an invisible war pressing down on his broad shoulders.
“Do you know who Carlo Moretti is?” he asked abruptly.
Laura blinked, caught off guard. “The... the man on the news? The construction magnate who’s running for the port commission?”
“He’s an animal who sells fentanyl out of shipping containers in Newark,” Arturo corrected coldly, his voice devoid of emotion. “And he wants a war with my family. He believes I’ve grown soft because I haven't burned his warehouses to the ground yet.”
“Why are you telling me this?” Laura asked, her voice small in the cavernous room.
Arturo studied her, his dark eyes lingering on the gentle curve of her neck, where a tiny silver chain—her mother’s only keepsake—rested against her skin. “Because the world outside those gates is going to get very loud, very soon. My men will secure the perimeter. No one enters this wing except Levian and myself. If you see anyone else, even someone in a uniform, you press the silent alarm behind your nightstand. Do you understand me?”
“You’re protecting me,” she realized out loud, the words slipping out before she could stop them.
May you like
Arturo stood up, walking toward the window that overlooked the sprawling grounds. Rain lashed against the thick, bullet-resistant glass. “I don't let anyone touch what is in my house, Laura. Especially not something that brings light into it.”
He didn't turn around to see the blush that flooded her cheeks. Laura stood up quietly, gathered the empty tea tray, and walked out, her fingers trembling against the polished silver.
