Chapter 2 - The Fire in the Kitchen
The kitchen smelled of stale red wine, spilled copper polish, and metallic blood.
Leo carried Lily up the cold stone cellar stairs as if she were made of spun glass. The six-year-old child had her thin arms wrapped around his neck, her nose pressed into the collar of his suit jacket, taking wet, shuddering breaths.
Behind them, Beatrice stumbled into the warm light of the kitchen. Her knees nearly gave out on the second step, but Mateo caught her elbow, his grip like an iron vise.
“Easy,” Mateo said softly. His rough face was grim. “You’re safe now, Beatrice.”
In the middle of the kitchen stood Victoria Kensington.
Her ivory silk slacks were still immaculate. Her manicured hands were folded across her chest, though the slight tremble in her chin betrayed the panic clawing at her throat. Three armed guards stood near the terrace doors, frozen in absolute terror, staring at the floorboards so they wouldn't have to look Leo in the eye.
Leo didn't set Lily down. He held her with his left arm, supporting her back, while his right hand cupped the back of her head.
He walked slowly until he stood three feet from Victoria.
“Leo,” Victoria began, forcing a soft, breathy quaver into her voice. She pulled her shoulders back, attempting to summon the cold authority of her Senator father. “I know how this looks. But you have to let me explain. The child threw a glass of orange juice on my vintage silk rug. When I tried to discipline her, that... that woman attacked me! She shoved me, Leo! Look at my wrist!”
She held out her wrist. There was a faint red mark where Mateo had seized her to retrieve the key.
Leo looked at the mark. Then he slowly turned his head toward Beatrice.
Beatrice was standing against the marble island for support. Her left eye was swelling shut, a deep blue shadow blooming across her cheekbone where Victoria’s heavy diamond ring had cut the skin. Her swollen lips were split and bleeding. Her right hand, stained with cellar dust, was trembling uncontrollably.
“Beatrice,” Leo said quietly.
Beatrice swallowed hard, wincing at the sharp pain in her throat. “Yes, Mr. Rossi?”
“Did you touch her?”
“I tried to grab the key from her hand, sir,” Beatrice whispered, her voice gravelly and trembling. “When Lily started screaming in the cellar, I tried to unlock the door. Miss Victoria hit me with her brass clutch. Then she kicked me when I fell.”
Victoria gasped. “She’s lying! She’s a disgruntled maid trying to save her job! Who are you going to believe, Leo? A woman from the gutter, or your fiancée?”
Leo slowly closed his eyes.
When he opened them, the air in the room seemed to drop ten degrees.
“Mateo,” Leo commanded smoothly.
“Boss?”
“Call Dr. Gabriel. Tell him to bring his trauma kit to the West Suite immediately.”
“Right away.”
“And Mateo?”
“Yeah?”
“Strip Victoria of her rings, her phone, and her coat.”
Victoria screamed as Mateo stepped forward without hesitation. “Get your filthy hands off me! Leo! Are you insane?! I am a Kensington! You can’t treat me like this!”
Mateo grabbed her wrist, tore the five-carat engagement diamond off her finger with one smooth pull, and fished her phone out of her pocket. He tossed the ring onto the granite counter where it clinked against a bloody paper towel.
“Where are you taking her?” Mateo asked.
“The holding room beneath the glasshouse,” Leo said, his voice flat and devoid of any human warmth. “Lock her in. If she speaks, gag her. If she screams, turn off the heat.”
“Leo! No! You can’t do this to me!” Victoria shrieked as two guards, eager to earn their lives back, grabbed her by the shoulders and dragged her backward out the kitchen door. Her polished leather heels scraped uselessly against the flagstones until the heavy oak door slammed shut, cutting off her voice.
Silence descended upon the kitchen.
Leo stood alone with Beatrice and his daughter. Lily’s breathing was finally evening out, her small chest rising and falling against his chest.
Leo looked at Beatrice.
For the first time in eighteen months, he truly looked at her.
He saw the torn apron strings cutting into her waist. He saw the faded cotton uniform that had seen twenty washings too many. He saw the broad, tired shoulders that had carried his daughter through the dark when no one else was looking.
He walked over to her.
Beatrice flinched slightly, an instinctive reflex born from twenty-eight years of being blamed for things she hadn't broken.
Leo didn't strike her. He didn't raise his voice.
He reached out his free hand and gently placed his palm against her bruised cheek. His fingers were warm, strong, and surprisingly soft.
“Thank you,” Leo whispered, his dark eyes burning with an intense, raw emotion that made Beatrice’s heart skip a beat. “You saved my daughter’s life, Beatrice.”
“I... I just couldn't let her hurt Lily,” Beatrice stammered, tears spilling over her swollen cheeks. “She’s just a little girl, Mr. Rossi. She’s so small.”
“You will never call me Mr. Rossi again,” Leo said firmly. “And you will never wear that uniform again.”
He turned to the head housekeeper, who had been hiding in the pantry trembling with fear.
“Mrs. Gable.”
“Y-yes, Mr. Rossi?” the older woman squeaked out.
“Prepare the West Wing master suite for Beatrice.”
Mrs. Gable’s jaw dropped. “The master suite? But sir, that’s reserved for royal guests—for your family—”
“Beatrice is family now,” Leo spat, his eyes locking onto Mrs. Gable with lethal intensity. “If I see her carrying another tray, scrubbing another floor, or sitting in the staff pantry ever again, I will burn this house down with everyone in it. Do you understand me?”
“Yes, sir! Immediately, sir!” Mrs. Gable scrambled toward the elevator.
Leo turned back to Beatrice. Before she could protest, before she could say she didn't belong in a silk bed or an elegant wing, Leo reached down, slid his arm under her knees, and lifted her off her feet.
May you like
Beatrice gasped, instinctively wrapping her arms around his shoulders. “Mr. Rossi—Leo! No! I’m too heavy—you can’t—”
“Be quiet, Bee,” Leo murmured, holding both his daughter and the woman who saved her against his chest as he walked toward the grand staircase. “I’ve carried far heavier burdens than grace.”
