Chapter 3 - The Kitchen Table
An hour later, the mansion was dead silent.
The security guards had swept the perimeter. Victoria was gone, wandering down the dark, rainy country road toward the highway. Dr. Vance had finished examining Lily, confirming that while her lungs were inflamed, she would recover fully thanks to Beatrice’s quick intervention.
In the massive, gleaming kitchen, the air smelled of chamomile tea and burnt toast.
Beatrice sat at the wooden kitchen table—not the servants’ prep table, but the large oak table where Leo and Lily usually ate breakfast. Her bruised fingers were wrapped in clean gauze, and an ice pack rested against her split cheek.
Footsteps echoed on the tile floor.
Leo walked in. He had changed into a simple black sweater and dark trousers. He carried two mugs of tea, setting one gently in front of Beatrice before pulling out the chair opposite her and sitting down.
For a long time, neither of them spoke. The wind howled against the windowpanes, rattling the glass.
“Does it hurt?” Leo asked quietly, pointing at her cheek.
Beatrice flinched slightly, then shook her head. “It’s just a bruise, Mr. Rossi. It’ll heal.”
“It shouldn’t have happened,” Leo said, his voice thick with a heavy, grinding guilt. “She was in my house for six months. I saw the way the other staff looked at you. I saw the small slights. I thought... I thought as long as I paid your wages on time and kept you safe from the syndicates, I was doing my job.”
“You didn't know,” Beatrice murmured, looking down at her steaming mug. “People like Victoria don't make messes where the boss can see them. They’re very neat about how they break things.”
Leo reached across the table.
His large, calloused hand—a hand that had signed death warrants and commanded dock strikes—covered her swollen, bruised fingers. His touch was surprisingly gentle.
“Lily asked for you ten minutes ago,” Leo said, a faint, genuine smile touching the corners of his mouth. “She wouldn't go to sleep until I promised to bring you up to her room after you drank your tea.”
Beatrice looked up, her heart skipping a beat. “She’s sleeping?”
“She’s resting. And she told me something else.”
“What?”
“She said Bee makes the best buttered noodles in Chicago, and she wants to know if you’ll move into the guest suite down the hall so you don't have to walk back to your apartment in the rain anymore.”
Beatrice stared at him, tears welling in her eyes again—not of fear or pain this time, but of a strange, terrifying warmth she hadn't felt since her own mother died.
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“Mr. Rossi, I’m just a maid—”
“You were never just a maid, Beatrice,” Leo interrupted, his dark eyes locking onto hers with an intensity that made her breath catch. “You are the only reason my daughter is alive tonight. And as for my house?” He stood up, offering his hand to help her out of the chair. “It’s about time someone ran it who actually knows what warmth feels like. Come on. Lily is waiting.”
