Chapter 2 - Shadows in the East Wing
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The second-floor East Wing was reserved for the syndicate's inner circle. The carpets here were thick enough to swallow footfalls, and the air smelled of imported mahogany, aged bourbon, and expensive cigars.
Wren carried the heavy silver tray with practiced, delicate balance. She moved with small, clipped steps, keeping her shoulders slightly hunched—the posture of a woman accustomed to being small.
She reached the heavy double doors of the VIP study, paused, and knocked twice.
"Enter," a deep, gravelly voice commanded from inside.
Wren pushed the door open, keeping her gaze pinned strictly to the rug. She stepped inside, her rubber-soled maid shoes silent against the floor.
Damian Ricci sat in a high-backed leather armchair near the roaring stone fireplace. His black suit coat was unbuttoned, revealing a crisp white shirt and a dark velvet vest. Across from him stood Luca Benedetti, his massive underboss, holding a leather folder.
"The Moretti cartel is pushing the border lines in Brooklyn," Luca was saying, his tone grim. "They think because of the truce tonight, you won't react."
"Let them think what they want," Damian replied calmly, taking a slow sip of his drink. "A dog that barks loudest is usually the easiest to put down."
Wren stepped quietly toward the side table, placing the tea tray down without making a single sound. Not a porcelain cup clinked against a saucer.
Damian stopped speaking mid-sentence. His dark eyes flicked toward the side table, watching her hands.
Wren felt his gaze like a physical burn against her skin. A normal servant would be trembling under the gaze of the East Coast's most feared Don, but Wren’s hands remained perfectly still. She poured the hot tea with surgical precision.
"You're the girl from the alcove," Damian said suddenly, his voice smooth and cold as liquid ice.
Wren paused for half a second before dipping her head into a deep, submissive bow. "I apologize for the mess earlier, sir. I am very sorry."
Damian leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. He studied the curve of her neck, the line of her spine, and the subtle way her feet were planted—balanced perfectly on the balls of her soles, ready to shift weight in a fraction of a millisecond.
"A girl who spills champagne usually shakes when she's confronted," Damian murmured softly. "You're not shaking."
"I am merely trying to do my job, Mr. Ricci," Wren whispered, keeping her voice high and meek.
Luca stepped forward, frowning. "Boss? Something wrong?"
May you like
Damian didn't look at Luca. His eyes remained locked on Wren. "No. Nothing at all. You may leave, girl."
Wren bowed again and retreated backward out the door, feeling his eyes tracing her every movement until the heavy oak doors shut between them.
