Chapter 2 - The Iron Gates and the Boss's Disdain
The DeLuca estate sat behind towering, wrought-iron security gates at the secluded edge of the northern hills.
As my dented, ten-year-old sedan crept up the private asphalt drive, it felt deeply embarrassed to exist in the same zip code as the property. The estate featured three magnificent marble fountains, a manicured landscape that looked like it was trimmed with nail scissors, and enough dome-mounted security cameras to monitor a medium-sized military base.
A heavy-set man named Carlo met me at the grand double doors of the main manor. He was the head of household security—a thick-necked enforcer with a permanent scowl and the suspicious posture of someone discovering an administrative error he intended to rectify with extreme prejudice.
"You’re the agency replacement?" Carlo barked, looking down his nose at me.
"Mia Callaway," I said, stepping out of my car and offering him a crisp, professional handshake.
Carlo looked at my outstretched hand, then slowly up at my face, leaving my hand hanging in the crisp autumn air before he turned on his heel.
"Mr. DeLuca is waiting. Don't touch anything on your way through the foyer."
Lorenzo DeLuca received me in his private study—a cavernous, imposing room lined with dark mahogany bookshelves, leather armchairs, and centuries-old oil paintings that reeked of old money and unpunished sins.
He was in his late fifties, threads of silver weaving through his dark hair, possessing an intensity of focus so sharp that I felt physically measured, weighed, and categorized before I had even reached the center of the Persian rug.
He studied me for three excruciating seconds.
"No," Lorenzo said flatly.
I kept my feet planted, refusing to retreat an inch. "Mr. DeLuca, my credentials—"
"No," he repeated, raising a single hand to silence me. He turned his cold, calculating gaze toward Carlo, who hovered near the door like an executioner's dog. "Send her back to Varro. Tell him to send a man who can carry a wounded target down a flight of stairs without dropping him."
"My son’s previous two personal protection guards were both men, Mr. DeLuca," I interjected, my voice cutting cleanly through the heavy silence of the study.
Lorenzo’s dark eyes snapped back to mine.
"The first one panicked and vomited when he heard a car backfire down the road," I continued, reciting the internal agency notes I had memorized. "The second one accepted a fifty-thousand-dollar wire transfer from an offshore account to quietly leave the side security gate unlocked on a Tuesday night."
Carlo’s posture stiffened into rigid hostility. "Watch your mouth, girl—"
"Do you usually interrupt people while they are speaking?" I asked, looking directly at Lorenzo, entirely ignoring the head of security.
"Only when insolent children speak out of turn in my house," Lorenzo replied, his voice dropping an octave into a dangerous, gravelly purr.
"I am not a child, and I am not insolent," I said smoothly, stepping closer to his desk. "I am a professional. I have never panicked during an active threat assignment. I have never taken a bribe in my life. And I do not confuse physical mass with tactical competence."
Lorenzo looked down at my simple black blazer, my slim frame, and the shoelace on my left boot that I had intentionally left slightly untied to test his powers of observation.
"One night," Lorenzo murmured, a faint, cynical smirk touching the corner of his thin lips.
I blinked. "Pardon?"
"You have until sunrise tomorrow morning to prove you belong inside this house. If you breathe too loudly, if you blink at the wrong time, or if you trip over your own feet, Carlo will escort you off the property before breakfast."
"I’ll need unrestricted access to the complete security camera logs, the estate floor plans, the current guard shift rotations, and all intelligence files concerning active threats against Matteo."
"You will receive whatever Carlo deems necessary for your basic survival," Lorenzo countered coldly.
"I'll decide what is necessary for my survival," I shot back, holding his terrifying gaze without flinching.
Carlo looked as though he had swallowed a live scorpion. He took a threatening step forward, but Lorenzo raised a hand, stopping him instantly.
May you like
Lorenzo’s eyes narrowed into slits as he studied me with grudging fascination. Then, with agonizing slowness, he gave a single, sharp nod.
"One night, Miss Callaway. Don't waste it."
