Chapter 3 - Blood at the Dinner Table
The grand dining room of the Moretti estate was designed to intimidate.
A thirty-foot mahogany table sat beneath two massive iron chandeliers. The walls were lined with dark oil paintings of stern-faced men with sharp jawlines and dark eyes—the grandfathers and great-grandfathers who had built the Moretti empire out of blood, concrete, and prohibition-era whiskey.
Claire sat at the far end of the table with Rosie, while the triplets sat in a neat, unusually quiet row across from them.
At the head of the table sat Dante Moretti. To his right was a man Claire had never seen before—a heavy-set, thick-necked man in his late fifties with a shaved head, pinstriped suit, and a thick gold pinky ring that clicked against his wine glass with every movement.
This was Salvatore Moretti—Dante’s uncle, and the secondary boss of the Hartford syndicate.
"So this is the new girl," Salvatore said, his voice thick with a raspy bronchitis cough. He cut into his rare steak with a heavy silver knife, blood pooling onto the fine porcelain plate. "Looks thin. Looks like a church mouse. Where’d you find her, Henry? A soup kitchen?"
Rosie shrank slightly into Claire's side, holding her stuffed rabbit closer.
Claire did not pull back. She picked up her cloth napkin, placed it neatly across her lap, and looked directly across the table at Salvatore.
"I worked at D'Angelo's Grill on Pratt Street, Mr. Moretti," Claire said smoothly. "Which means I'm used to loud men with cheap cologne making noise while I'm trying to serve dinner."
The entire room went dead silent.
Nico stopped chewing his steak. Leo’s jaw dropped. Even the two armed security guards standing by the dining room doors shifted their weight uncomfortably.
Salvatore set his knife down with a heavy, dangerous CLACK. His small, dark eyes narrowed into slits as he stared across the long table at Claire.
"What did you say to me, girl?" Salvatore growled, his thick hands gripping the edge of the table.
Dante didn't move. He sat at the head of the table, holding his wine glass halfway to his lips, his dark eyes locked onto Claire with a terrifying, unreadable intensity. He was waiting to see if she would break under the pressure of a man who had personally buried five rivals in the Connecticut River.
Claire didn't back down. She met Salvatore's glare with the cold, unyielding pride of a woman who had spent six years dealing with abusive bosses, angry landlords, and late-night drunkards.
"I said," Claire repeated calmly, "that my daughter is trying to enjoy her meal. If you want to discuss my qualifications, Mr. Moretti, we can do it after the children go to bed. But while there are seven-year-olds at this table, we use manners. Isn't that right, boys?"
Claire looked at the triplets.
Leo glanced at his uncle, then at Claire, and slowly nodded once. "Yes, Miss Bennett."
Salvatore’s face turned a deep, dangerous shade of crimson. He began to stand up, his heavy chair scraping loudly against the marble floor. "Dante! You let this common servant speak to your blood like—"
"Sit down, Salvatore," Dante commanded.
The tone was not loud, but it possessed a razor-sharp authority that instantly froze the older man in his tracks.
Dante slowly set his wine glass down on the table. He turned his head toward his uncle, his expression completely devoid of warmth.
"Miss Bennett is employed by this household," Dante said softly. "She sets the rules for the children's dining area. If you cannot respect her authority over the table, you can have your dinner served in the guest quarters."
Salvatore stared at his nephew in utter disbelief. He looked like he wanted to argue, but the cold, murderous promise in Dante’s eyes made him swallow his pride. He spat something in low, bitter Italian under his breath, slammed his napkin onto his plate, and sat back down hard.
Claire took a quiet, deep breath under the table, her hand finding Rosie’s shoulder, squeezing gently.
For the rest of the meal, no one spoke a word.
At 9:00 PM, after getting Rosie and the triplets bathed and settled into their respective bedrooms in the west wing, Claire walked down the dark, carpeted hallway toward her private quarters.
As she passed the library, the heavy oak door stood slightly ajar. A single desk lamp cast a warm, golden glow across the floorboards.
"Miss Bennett," Dante’s voice called out from the dark room.
Claire paused. She pushed the door open slightly and stepped inside.
Dante was sitting behind a massive leather desk covered in financial ledgers, shipping manifests, and three separate encrypted satellite phones. He had taken off his jacket, unbuttoned his collar, and rolled up his sleeves, revealing thick forearms covered in dark tattoos—ancient Italian script mixed with family crests.
"Yes, Mr. Moretti?" Claire asked, standing near the doorway.
Dante did not look up from his papers. He adjusted his pen, signing his name to a document before finally lifting his gaze to meet hers.
"Salvatore is a dangerous man," Dante said flatly. "He does not like being embarrassed. Especially not by women he considers inferior."
"I don't care about his feelings, Mr. Moretti," Claire said. "I care about my daughter's environment. If I let men like him intimidate me in front of Rosie, I teach her that she has to take abuse from powerful men. I won't do that."
Dante studied her for a long moment. The harsh light of the desk lamp highlighted the sharp angles of his jaw and the deep, tired shadows beneath his eyes.
"You have twenty-four hours left on your probationary period," Dante noted quietly. "Most nannies who survived the boys failed when Salvatore arrived. He usually makes them cry within an hour."
"I don't cry easily, Mr. Moretti," Claire said. "Not anymore."
"Good," Dante said, looking back down at his work. "Because tomorrow night is the anniversary of my wife's death. The boys will be worse. Salvatore will be worse. And the house will be full of men who carry guns for a living."
He looked back up, his dark eyes locking onto hers with a sudden, intense focus that made her pulse jump.
"If you are still here at midnight tomorrow, Miss Bennett," Dante said softly, "your salary doubles. And you will have the full protection of the Moretti name for as long as you live."
May you like
Claire felt a strange, electric shiver run down her spine. "I'll be here, Mr. Moretti."
"We'll see," Dante whispered.
