Chapter 4 - The Dinner by the Hearth
By 8:00 PM, the storm outside Villa Moretti had turned into a full-scale Alpine blizzard. White sheets of snow whipped against the reinforced glass windows of the third-floor study, but inside, the room was warm, safe, and silent.
A small round table had been brought into the center of the study, covered in a white linen tablecloth and lit by two beeswax candles.
Rosa herself had brought the food up—a steaming silver bowl of rich beef ragu over handmade tagliatelle, fresh crusty bread, and a platter of seared prime beef explicitly prepared for Bruno.
Rosa had not said a single word when she laid the places. She had simply looked at Clara with a mixture of profound awe and silent respect before backing out of the room.
Clara sat at the table, feeling completely out of place in her simple maid’s apron, holding a silver fork.
Opposite her sat Matteo Moretti.
He had poured two glasses of sparkling mineral water, sitting comfortably in his chair, eating his dinner with calm, measured elegance.
Below the table, Bruno was happily devouring his platter of beef, his heavy tail thumping against the Persian rug every few seconds.
“You aren't eating, Clara,” Matteo observed softly, setting his fork down.
“I... I’ve never eaten dinner with an employer before, Signor Moretti,” Clara confessed, her eyes fixing on her plate. “In my old life, Grant used to tell me that people of high status only talked to people like me when they wanted something cleaned or repaired.”
Matteo’s eyes darkened slightly at the mention of her ex-husband.
“Grant Hayes was a small man who needed to diminish you in order to feel large,” Matteo said, his deep voice filling the room with an undeniable weight of truth. “My grandfather built this shipping empire from nothing. He started as a dockworker in Naples. He taught me that a person’s worth is measured by their character, their loyalty, and their courage—not by the title on their apron.”
Clara looked up, meeting his gaze. In the flickering candlelight, Matteo’s features looked less like those of a terrifying mafia boss and more like those of a man who carried the heavy burden of protecting everything he loved.
“You gave up your safety today to comfort a suffering animal,” Matteo continued, leaning forward. “You stood up to my groomer, you ignored Bianca’s insults, and you didn't flinch when glass broke at your feet. That makes you braver than ninety percent of the men who sit across this desk trying to do business with me.”
A soft, genuine smile spread across Clara’s lips—the first true smile she had displayed since arriving at the estate. “He just had sore hips, Signor Moretti. It didn't take bravery. Just patience.”
Matteo stared at her smile, his dark eyes softening in a way that made Clara’s breath catch in her throat.
“Call me Matteo,” he said quietly.
Clara blinked. “I couldn't. The staff—”
“There are no staff in this room, Clara,” Matteo said softly. “Just you, me, and Bruno.”
For the next hour, the terrifying master of Villa Moretti talked to her not as a boss, but as a man. He asked her about her childhood in the hills near Bergamo, her love for restoring old books, and her simple dreams of owning a small cottage with a garden. In return, Matteo told her about growing up on Lake Como, the loss of his parents when he was young, and how Bruno had been given to him as a puppy during one of the hardest years of his life.
As the clock on the mantelpiece chimed 10:00 PM, Bruno finished his meal, let out a massive yawn, and curled his heavy body around Clara’s chair, resting his chin directly across her shoes.
Clara laughed softly, reaching down to stroke his velvet ears. “I think he’s officially stuck to me.”
“He is smart,” Matteo murmured, standing up from the table and walking over to stand beside her chair. “He knows where safety lies.”
Matteo reached down, his large, warm hand covering Clara’s where it rested on Bruno’s head. His touch was electric, sending a warm rush of heat straight to Clara’s heart.
Clara looked up, her green eyes wide and breathless as she found Matteo standing inches away, looking down at her with a raw, intense reverence that made her world shrink down to just the two of them.
“Matteo...” she whispered.
“You came here looking for a place to hide, Clara,” Matteo said, his voice low and thick with emotion. “But you brought light into a house that has been cold for a very long time.”
Before Clara could answer, a red light on Matteo’s desk began to flash rapidly, accompanied by a low, persistent electronic chime.
Matteo’s expression shifted instantly back into sharp, military focus. He pulled his hand back, stepping toward his desk, and pressed a button on his intercom.
“Speak,” Matteo commanded.
The voice of his head security officer, Marco, came through the speaker, crisp and urgent.
“Signor Moretti, we have a breach at the southern gate,” Marco reported. “A vehicle managed to pass the lower checkpoint during the snowstorm. Three men are on foot, approaching the service courtyard.”
May you like
Matteo’s jaw tightened. “Who are they?”
“We ran the plates on the abandoned car, sir,” Marco replied. “It belongs to Grant Hayes.”
