Chapter 4 - Whispers in the Servants' Quarters
Downstairs in the subterranean belly of the Rossi mansion, the kitchen was alive with the furious, venomous hum of gossip.
It was two in the morning, but none of the night staff had gone to sleep. Mrs. Higgins, the formidable head housekeeper who had ruled the domestic staff for fifteen years with an iron spatula, sat at the long stainless-steel preparation table with a mug of black coffee, her mouth set in a hard, bitter line. Around her stood two of the younger maids—Clara and Brenda—both dressed in their gray uniforms, whispering with animated, spiteful energy.
"Carried her!" Brenda hissed, leaning over the table, her eyes wide with malicious excitement. "Mr. Rossi carried her up the grand staircase himself! I saw it through the pantry window! Her big, clumsy self scooped up in his arms like she was some kind of fragile princess! Her apron was covered in filth and blood!"
"And Miss Moretti was thrown out into the rain by Matteo," Clara added, shaking her head in disbelief. "I heard her screaming all the way down the driveway. Her father is going to burn this place to the ground. You know what Sal Moretti is like. He won't let his daughter be cast aside for a fat nobody from a trailer park."
"That's enough," Mrs. Higgins snapped, though her own eyes burned with a cold, resentful light. "Skylar Gallagher is a clumsy, incompetent girl who happened to be in the right place at the right time to play the martyr. She broke three crystal tumblers last Tuesday! She’s been manipulating Mrs. Rossi's soft-headedness for months, bringing her little cups of tea and whispering in her ear like a common snake."
"And now she's sleeping in the East Wing," Brenda sneered, crossing her arms. "The East Wing! That suite has silk sheets and a private fireplace! Even Mr. Rossi's cousins aren't allowed to stay in that wing without an invitation! Who does she think she is?"
"She thinks she's clever," Mrs. Higgins said, taking a slow, scalding sip of her coffee. "She thinks that because the boss had a momentary lapse of reason to spite the Morettis, she’s going to be elevated above her station. But mark my words: once the dust settles and Mr. Rossi has to face Sal Moretti’s guns, that girl will be right back out on the street where she belongs. Men like Dominic Rossi don't look at women like Penny. They use them to make a point, and then they discard them like yesterday's newspapers."
"Are you certain of that, Mrs. Higgins?"
The cold, melodic voice cut through the warm kitchen like an ice pick.
The three women froze. The color drained from Mrs. Higgins’s face so fast she looked like a wax mannequin left out in the rain.
Dominic Rossi stood in the doorway of the kitchen.
He had removed his tuxedo jacket, his white dress shirt unbuttoned at the throat, the sleeves rolled up to reveal the dark, intricate tattoos of coiled vipers and Latin scripture tracing his forearms. His hands were tucked into his pockets, but his shoulders were squared, his posture radiating a terrifying, suffocating dominance that made the air in the room feel instantly unbreathable.
Behind him stood Luca, chewing on a wooden toothpick, his hand resting casually on the butt of the Glock holstered beneath his arm.
Mrs. Higgins scrambled to her feet, knocking her chair backward against the tiled floor with a loud, metallic clatter. "M-Mr. Rossi! Sir! We were just... we were just cleaning up the late service—"
"I asked you a question, Mrs. Higgins," Dominic said softly, walking slowly toward the preparation table. His polished shoes were completely silent against the linoleum. "Are you certain of how I choose to conduct the affairs of this house?"
Brenda and Clara dropped their eyes to the floor, trembling so violently their aprons rustled.
"N-No, sir," Mrs. Higgins whispered, her throat clicking as she swallowed. "Of course not, sir. I was merely... expressing concern over the... the political fallout with the Moretti family—"
"You were laughing," Dominic said, stopping on the opposite side of the table. He leaned forward, resting his palms flat against the stainless steel, his dark eyes fixing on the head housekeeper with the chilling focus of an executioner checking his blade. "For eleven months, you have allowed the staff to call that girl 'Penny.' You gave her the heaviest carts. You assigned her the late shifts on the top floor knowing her knees were bad from an old high school injury. You laughed when she broke a teacup that cost fifty dollars, while you quietly pocketed five thousand a month from the grocery kickbacks."
Mrs. Higgins gasped, clutching her chest, her lips turning a faint shade of blue. "Sir, I swear—"
"Pack your bags," Dominic said.
The words were so quiet, so devoid of theatricality, that it took three seconds for their meaning to penetrate the room.
"Sir?"
"You have twenty minutes to vacate the staff quarters," Dominic said, straightening up. "Brenda. Clara. You will assist her. If I see any of your faces on this property after two-thirty, Luca will take you to the docks. And you know what happens to people who steal from my family at the docks."
"Mr. Rossi, please!" Mrs. Higgins sobbed, falling to her knees on the linoleum, her hands outstretched in pathetic supplication. "I've served this house for fifteen years! My husband worked for your father!"
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"Your husband had honor," Dominic said, turning his back on them. "You do not. You mocked a woman who took a blow meant to save my mother's life. In this house, that makes you worse than an enemy. It makes you garbage."
He walked out of the kitchen without another glance, leaving the three women weeping in the fluorescent glare of the stainless-steel prep room.
