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“Holly, you’ll take the east wing today. Leave Dr Ossani’s quarters, but clean the rest.”
I nod, huddled in the kitchens with the rest of the staff. The head housekeeper keeps talking, doling out tasks, and I focus on breathing slowly, tamping down the constant anxiety that bubbles in my chest these days.
I’m not a good liar. Not a good sneak. Governor Edwards may not realize or care, but he’s picked the absolute worst person to blackmail into doing his dirty work. I mean, I didn’t even spot that stupid ladder, did I?
Will De Rossi kill me quickly when he finds out I’m the spy? Or will he drag it out and make me suffer? Will his enforcer be the one to do it?
Stainless steel pots and pans glitter on the wall above the huge ovens. I sway in my sensible black shoes, feeling woozy.
It’s so hot in here. Must be a kitchen thing, the air always choked with steam and the scent of herbs, because everyone’s cheeks are flushed and my hair is damp against the back of my neck. I’ll sweat through my maid’s uniform soon if they don’t hurry this meeting along.
“No opening drawers. No lingering in doorways.”
It’s the same spiel we get every day now; the same unspoken warning that if we’re suspected as the spy, life won’t be worth living anymore.
I shift my weight from foot to foot, hands clasped tightly behind my back.
“Mr Cedrone will interview you all today. As soon as he’s finished, return immediately to your duties and do not repeat a word that was said.”
There’s a flurry of nods, everyone wide-eyed and suddenly ashen, never mind the heat.
No one wants to speak to De Rossi’s enforcer if they can help it. We all know the stories, all know what he’s capable of, but who are we to refuse? I clench my fingers together, my chest so tight with anxiety that it could burst.
The way he stared at me last night in the library…
Cedrone already suspects me, I know it.
* * *
I’m pulled away from the laundry room in the early evening, with barely thirty minutes left of my shift. It’s been a long, tense day of waiting for the tap on my shoulder, twisting myself into tighter and tighter knots as I clean, the nerves building the longer I work.
Now I’ve finally been summoned, and the windows are dark as I hurry along the mansion corridors to the allotted room. Snowflakes spiral past the glass, whipped away on the breeze.
I shiver.
Did he leave me until last on purpose? To make me squirm?
Did anyone else give my name? Do the other staff suspect me?
Oh, god. I’m getting an ulcer, I know I am.
The door creaks as I push it open, heavy wood swinging on its hinges. The room is dark, lit only by a single table lamp, and there are two armchairs facing one another in the center of the floor.
Whatisthis room? There are some bookshelves and a drinks cart, plus a dartboard on the wall between two faded oil paintings of fruit, but it seems unused. The air is stale.
The door clicks shut behind me. I jump, spinning around to find Diego Cedrone watching me with those dark eyes.
“Oh.” I smooth down my crisp, white apron with trembling fingers. “Hello again.”
Cedrone nods at the armchairs. “Take a seat.”
He’s not a calming presence, not even after a month to get used to him. There’s nothing reassuring about this man. With his scars and his beard and the brawny shoulders straining his black shirt, meeting him is like being tossed into a bear enclosure. Even when he throws himself down in the seat opposite mine, gusting out a sigh, there’s something tense about him. Something ready to strike.
“Holly.”
I nod, the ends of my hair swinging against my cheeks.
“You’re new,” Cedrone says, scratching his jaw, kicking one ankle up to rest on his knee. He’s not reading from any staff file—just watching me from beneath lowered brows, sprawled and powerful. Everyone says that De Rossi’s right hand men are all the same age, that they grew up together, but to my eyes, the enforcer looks years older. There are threads of silver at his temples that the others don’t have.
