Chapter 2 - The Red Line
The piece of paper sat in the center of Matteo’s heavy walnut desk like a drop of venom on white linen.
It was a candid shot taken from the edge of the estate’s forest line. In it, I was sitting on the porch of my cottage, my hands buried in Bruno’s thick black fur while the dog rested his massive head in my lap. My face was circled in bold red marker. On the back, six words were scrawled in jagged black ink: WE KNOW WHAT HIS DOG LOVES.....
The silence in Matteo’s study was heavy enough to bend steel.
Leo stood by the dark velvet curtains, his hands crossed over his belt, his posture rigid. Outside, the night was pitch black, a fresh blizzard howling against the tall leaded glass windows of the Lake Geneva mansion.
“Where was it found?” I asked. My voice sounded smaller than I wanted, but I kept my hands steady in my lap.
“Under the side entrance door,” Leo said softly. “Twenty minutes ago. The perimeter sensors didn't trigger, which means whoever dropped it knows the camera blind spots near the old stables.”
I looked up at Matteo. He hadn't taken off his coat. He stood behind his desk, leaning forward with his palms flat on the wood, staring at the red circle around my face as if he could incinerate the paper with his eyes alone.
“Pack your things from the cottage,” Matteo said. His tone wasn't loud. It was flat, cold, and absolute. “You move into the main house tonight. Second floor, eastern suite. Two men will be posted outside your door.”
My spine straightened instantly.
“No,” I said.
Leo’s eyes flicked to me in mild shock. People didn't say no to Matteo Moretti in this house. They barely said maybe.
Matteo raised his gaze slowly. The dark brown of his eyes looked almost black in the dim lamp light. “Excuse me?”
“I am not moving into your guest suite under armed guard,” I said, looking him dead in the eye. “I spent fourteen years being told where I was allowed to sleep, when I was allowed to leave, and which doors I was allowed to open. I didn't escape Grant just to enter a luxurious prison with nicer marble.”
“Clara,” Matteo said, taking a step around the desk. His tall frame cast a long shadow across the rug. “Someone is targeting you to get to me. This isn't a debate about your independence. It’s about keeping you breathing.”
“If someone wants to hurt me to get to you, locking me in a high-security bedroom makes me a sitting target in a cage,” I replied, standing up. My knee throbbed slightly where I’d bruised it earlier, but I ignored it. “Whoever took this photo knows I live in the cottage. They know Bruno stays there. If I suddenly vanish into the main house, they’ll know you’re rattled. And I will not live like a hostage.”
“You are a maid,” Leo interjected gently, trying to smooth the edge of the confrontation. “Miss Clara, with all due respect, Mr. Moretti’s security detail is trained for—”
“I don't care about the detail,” I interrupted, keeping my focus locked on Matteo. “I care about my life. You asked me earlier if Grant’s voice belonged in my cottage, Matteo. Well, your security guards don't belong outside my bedroom door either.”
Matteo stared at me. The silence stretched until the fire in the hearth popped, sending a shower of orange sparks against the iron grate.
For a terrifying second, I thought he was going to have Leo drag me upstairs anyway. He had the power. He had the men. He had the reputation of a man who controlled half the shipping and logistics operations in Chicago with an iron fist.
Instead, he let out a slow, quiet breath through his nose.
“Fine,” Matteo said softly.
Leo blinked. “Boss?”
“She stays in the cottage,” Matteo said, never breaking eye contact with me. “But Bruno stays with her every night. The perimeter sensors near the stables are doubled by midnight. And Leo—you personally check every vehicle coming through the main gate.”
“Understood,” Leo nodded, though his jaw remained tight.
Matteo walked toward me, stopping just inches away. He smelled of cold air, cedarwood, and the faint, bitter scent of black coffee. He didn't touch me, but his presence filled the space between us completely.
“You want your independence, Clara,” he said quietly, his voice low enough that only I could hear it. “I respect that. But do not confuse my protection with control. If anything happens to you on my land, I will burn down whoever did it, and I will start with the people who let them close.”
“I’m not asking you to burn anything down,” I whispered back. “I’m asking you to trust that I can handle my own life.”
“We’ll see,” he said.
Twenty minutes later, I walked back down the snow-covered path toward my cottage.
The wind was biting, tearing through my thin coat, but beside me walked 150 pounds of muscle and black fur. Bruno didn't range ahead or lag behind; he kept his shoulder pressed lightly against my hip, his dark eyes scanning the tree line every few feet.
When we reached the cottage, I unlocked the heavy oak door and pushed it open.
Bruno didn't head for his usual spot near the fireplace. Instead, he trotted directly to the small window facing the forest, placed his front paws on the sill, and let out a low, vibrating growl that vibrated straight through the floorboards.
I froze, my hand still on the door handle.
May you like
Outside, deep in the dark treeline beyond the estate’s fence, a pair of headlights flickered once, then vanished into the storm.
Someone was watching. And they weren't just threatening the dog anymore.
