Chapter 6 - The Bride
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Spring arrived, thawing the Boston streets, but the Duca estate remained a fortress of cold protocol.
The atmosphere in the house shifted dramatically in April. A flurry of activity consumed the first floor. Caterers arrived for tastings, tailors carried garment bags through the halls, and Mrs. Dora marched around with a clipboard, her silver hair pulled tighter than usual.
Raphael Duca was getting married.
Her name was Vivian Moretti. She was twenty-five, the daughter of a prominent judge who had conveniently turned a blind eye to the harbor unions for a decade. She was stunningly beautiful, with dark, perfectly styled hair and an air of aristocratic boredom.
She did not walk through the Duca estate; she inspected it.
Clara was scrubbing the marble baseboards in the main foyer when Vivian arrived for a walkthrough. She wore a tailored white coat and carried a designer handbag that cost more than a car.
"The lighting in here is dreadful," Vivian complained to her wedding planner, waving a manicured hand toward the chandelier. "It makes everything look so... dreary. Raphael really needs a woman's touch in this mausoleum."
Clara kept her head down, scrubbing a spot on the marble until her knuckles turned white.
"Excuse me," Vivian's sharp voice cut through the air.
Clara froze, looking up from the floor. Vivian was staring down at her, her lips curled in mild distaste.
"You missed a spot near the doorframe," Vivian said, pointing a finger. "And try not to leave puddles everywhere. My shoes are suede."
"Yes, ma'am," Clara whispered, quickly moving to wipe the area dry.
Vivian sighed dramatically, turning back to the planner. "The staff here is so antiquated. When I move in, I'm cleaning house. We need young, vibrant people. Not women who look like they belong in a Dickens novel."
Clara’s heart seized. Cleaning house.
If Vivian fired her, she would lose the income. She would lose the safe haven of the sewing room for Noel. She would lose the extra food.
Panic, cold and sharp, flooded her veins. The irregular heartbeat she lived with suddenly flared, a rapid, terrifying fluttering in her chest. She gasped, pressing a wet hand against her uniform, struggling to pull air into her lungs.
"Are you alright, Clara?"
The deep, quiet voice stopped the entire foyer.
Raphael stood at the top of the grand staircase. He walked down slowly, his dark eyes fixed entirely on Clara, completely ignoring his fiancée.
Clara forced herself to stand up, gripping the mop handle for support, trying to mask the dizzying pain in her chest. "I'm fine, Mr. Duca. Apologies."
Raphael reached the bottom of the stairs. He looked at Vivian, then down at the spot Clara had been scrubbing.
"Vivian," Raphael said smoothly. "The staff in this house report exclusively to me. You do not correct them. You do not address them. Is that understood?"
Vivian's mouth dropped open in shock, a flush of embarrassed anger rising on her cheeks. "Raphael, she left a puddle—"
"Is that understood?" Raphael repeated, his voice dropping into that terrifying, quiet register that made hardened criminals sweat.
Vivian swallowed hard, nodding sharply. "Yes. Of course."
Raphael turned his back on his future wife. He looked at Clara, his eyes scanning her pale face, noting the hand pressed to her chest.
May you like
"Take your bucket to the kitchen, Clara," Raphael ordered softly. "Your shift is over for the day. Go home."
It wasn't a dismissal; it was a rescue.
