Ira’s POV

He didn’t speak.

He didn’t need to.

The room fell silent the second I stepped in, like even the furniture knew it wasn’t my place. Heavy curtains blocked the moonlight, leaving only the soft flicker of a fireplace and the low, amber glow from the chandelier above. The smoke of expensive cigars curled in the air, thick and slow.

Three men sat around a glass table, dressed in all black. They looked up, barely curious. But he... he didn’t look up. Not at first.

He was leaning back in the high leather chair at the head of the room, legs slightly spread, a glass of dark liquor in one hand, the other resting loosely on the armrest—like a king bored of his court.

And then he looked at me.

A single flick of his gaze. From under thick lashes, still as death.

I stopped breathing.

I’d been stared at before—by strangers on the street, by men who mistook my silence for weakness. But this was different. His stare wasn’t curious. It wasn’t kind. It was… consuming.

I lowered my eyes instantly, heat rushing to my cheeks.

Don’t stare. Don’t speak. Be invisible.

I stepped forward, tray balanced between trembling hands. Every click of my heel on the floor echoed like a scream. I didn’t dare glance up. I placed the tray on the small table beside him, careful, silent.

But my hand trembled.

The spoon clinked against the saucer.

Just once.

But loud enough.

His hand moved—fast. Not threatening. Not angry. But precise.

He picked up the espresso cup slowly, elegantly, and spoke his first words.

“You’re new.”

His voice was low. Smooth like velvet. But there was something else in it—something sharp beneath the softness, like honey poured over glass.

I nodded once. “Yes, sir.”

“Your name?”

“Ira,” I whispered, clutching the tray.

He tilted his head slightly. “Indian?”

“Yes.”

A beat of silence.

His eyes traced over me—slowly. Not lewd. Not polite either. Just... inspecting. Noticing everything.

The crease in my apron. The slight tremor in my fingers. The burn mark on my wrist from this morning’s soup pot.

He noticed it all.

“You spilled something?” he asked, gaze flicking to the fading red welt.

“N-no. Kitchen accident.”

“Hmm.”

I didn’t know what that sound meant. Approval? Disbelief? Disinterest?

He didn’t say anything else. He didn’t need to.

I stepped back quickly, heart thundering in my chest. But before I could turn, his voice stopped me again.

“Don’t serve anyone else in this house. From now on, you answer to me.”

The room went cold.

I froze.

I could feel the other men glance up now. One even let out a low chuckle—short, knowing.

I turned back slowly, eyes wide. “Sir?”

He didn’t look at me this time. He took a sip of the espresso, set it down, and leaned back again like it was already decided.

“I don’t repeat myself, Ira.”

I opened my mouth to protest, but nothing came out.

And in that moment, I knew—

The rules I came here with? Be silent. Be invisible. Serve and survive?

They were already broken.

Because Luca Moretti had seen me.

And the way he looked at me…

Like I was a problem he couldn’t solve.

A silence he wanted to ruin.

A maid he didn’t intend to share.

The tray in my hands rattled slightly with every step, even though I tried my hardest to hold it still.

I didn’t go back to the kitchen. I went straight to the attic room, shut the door, and leaned against it, breath shaky.

What did he mean, “You answer to me now”?

Was it a warning? A threat?

Or something worse—an interest?

---

That night, I barely slept.

Every creak of the wood, every distant footstep made me sit upright, heart in my throat.

I wasn’t afraid of violence. I’d grown up around it. I’d seen girls pulled by their braids for stealing bread, boys beaten for speaking out of turn. That wasn’t new.

What scared me was his stillness. His control. That cold command in his voice that said he was the kind of man who didn't need to raise his voice to end someone’s life.

And the worst part?

Some tiny, broken part of me…

wanted to be seen by him again.

I hated it.

---

The next morning, I went down early, as always. Maria was already in the kitchen, chopping onions.

She glanced at me once. “You’re quiet.”

“I usually am.”

She smiled faintly, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “The Capo asked about you this morning.”

My heart dropped.

“What?”

“He wants you to bring his breakfast. Only you. You’re not on the main service team anymore.”

“But I… I don’t…” I stammered, panicked. “That’s not—I don’t belong in the west wing.”

Maria didn’t argue. She just wiped her hands and placed a tray in front of me.

“Toast. Black coffee. Two boiled eggs. Don't talk unless he speaks. Don’t stay longer than you’re asked. Don’t ask questions.”

I stared at the tray like it was a bomb.

“I didn’t do anything,” I whispered.

Maria’s voice softened. “That’s exactly why he noticed you, ragazza. You didn’t try to.”

---

When I entered the west wing, the floor beneath my feet seemed to change. The walls were quieter. The air heavier. I moved like a shadow, keeping my steps light and my eyes low.

His bedroom door was slightly open.

That felt too intimate. Too invasive.

But I knocked anyway.

No answer.

I took one breath. Then another. Then pushed the door slowly, quietly, and stepped in.

He was sitting on the edge of the bed, shirtless, cigarette in one hand, phone in the other. His hair was messy—too perfect to be accidental—and his jaw clenched as he said something in Italian into the phone.

He didn’t look at me.

Not right away.

But he knew I was there. I could feel it.

He ended the call. Took one long drag of the cigarette. Then spoke without turning.

“You’re late.”

“I—I didn’t know where to—”

He finally turned his head.

His eyes met mine like a flame meeting oxygen. Calm. Controlled. But burning.

“Put it down,” he said, voice low.

I moved forward, hands trembling slightly as I set the tray on the table near the window.

Then I turned to leave.

“You’re afraid of me.”

I froze mid-step.

He said it like a fact. Not a question. Not a boast.

I didn’t answer.

He stood up.

And I felt it. Even behind me. The heat. The weight. The presence of him.

One step. Two. His

bare feet on the marble floor.

“I told you,” he said, voice closer now, “you answer to me.”

I turned around slowly, barely breathing.

He was right in front of me.

And God help me, I didn’t step back.