Chapter 3 - The Secret Visits
The next morning, the household was walking on eggshells.
Word had already filtered down through the corridors that Damian Volkov had spent the night sleeping continuously for six hours—the first uninterrupted rest he had managed since the poisoning three weeks ago. Head housekeeper Mrs. Gable cornered me by the linen closets before sunrise, her face pale with nervous curiosity.
"What did you do, Clara?" she demanded in a harsh whisper. "The guards said you were in his room for five minutes. Most nurses leave in tears within two. What dark magic did you use?"
"I didn't do anything," I lied, keeping my eyes fixed on the stack of folded sheets. "Lila wandered in. He didn't have us killed. That's all."
Mrs. Gable narrowed her eyes, unconvinced, but before she could press further, the heavy intercom buzzed on the wall.
It was Damian’s private line.
“Clara to the master suite. Immediately.”
The silence in the service corridor was so absolute you could hear the rain tapping against the courtyard glass. Without another word, Mrs. Gable stepped aside, eyeing me as if I were walking toward a gallows.
This time, when I knocked on the massive mahogany double doors of the master bedroom, the heavy oak swung open on its own.
Damian was sitting up in a leather armchair by the floor-to-ceiling windows, wearing a dark silk robe. The sickly gray pallor of his skin had faded slightly into a bruised, stubborn bronze. He looked less like a corpse and more like a predator waiting in the reeds.
Standing beside him, looking profoundly uncomfortable, was Viktor Vance—Damian’s chief enforcer and shadow. Viktor’s hand hovered near the holster beneath his suit jacket as I stepped inside, holding Lila’s hand.
Lila, completely oblivious to the armed mobster glaring down at her, immediately broke away from my grip. She trotted across the oriental rug, holding up a fresh drawing she had spent the morning coloring in the servants' quarters.
It was a picture of a large stick figure with a massive heart drawn on its chest, surrounded by yellow suns and a very lopsided rabbit.
She walked right up to Damian’s chair, climbed onto the ottoman without asking permission, and thrust the paper into his lap.
Viktor stiffened, his hand darting forward. "Boss, should I—?"
"Don't touch her, Viktor," Damian interrupted, his voice lethal.
Viktor froze, blinking in disbelief as the most feared man in the mid-Atlantic picked up the crayon drawing with fingers that had once signed death warrants for rival syndicates. Damian traced the lines of the lopsided heart with his thumb.
"Is this me?" Damian asked quietly, looking down at Lila.
Lila couldn't hear the words, but she caught the movement of his lips and the softening of his expression. She nodded vigorously, then tapped her own chest and pointed to his heart, mimicking yesterday's gesture.
Better? her eyes seemed to ask.
Damian swallowed hard, a muscle working in his jaw. He looked up at me, standing frozen near the door.
"She doesn't speak?" Damian asked.
"She speaks, Mr. Volkov. She just can't hear," I explained, my voice finally steadying out of sheer maternal protectiveness. "She was born with severe auditory nerve damage. The hearing aids help capture low-frequency vibrations, but spoken language is difficult. We primarily use sign language."
Damian didn't look away from Lila, who was now examining the silver cuff links on his silk robe with intense fascination.
"She doesn't know who I am," Damian stated, more to himself than to me.
"She knows when someone is hurting," I replied softly. "She doesn't care about your reputation, Mr. Volkov. Children don't care about empires."
Viktor cleared his throat, leaning close to Damian's ear. "Boss, the councilmen are arriving from downtown in an hour. And the doctors said your heart rate needs monitoring. We can't have distractions—"
"She is not a distraction, Viktor," Damian cut him off coldly. He looked back at me. "From now on, Clara, your duties on the ground floor are canceled. You report to this suite every day at noon. Your salary will be tripled."
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"I... I can't accept special treatment," I stammered. "The other staff—"
"Let them talk," Damian said, his dark eyes flashing with a dangerous, absolute authority. "Grayhaven House belongs to me. And inside these walls, what I say is law."
