Chapter 3 - Poison in the Snow
By morning, the blizzard had passed, leaving Lake Geneva covered in a blinding sheet of white ice.
I was in the estate’s main kitchen by six, helping Rosa prep the breakfast trays. My hands were busy chopping fresh fruit, but my mind was stuck on the headlights I’d seen through the trees.
The kitchen door swung open, and Bianca Russo swept in, wearing a tailored red wool dress and gold jewelry that clinked loudly with every step. Her eyes swept over the counters before landing on me with sharp disgust.
“Rosa,” Bianca said, ignoring my presence entirely. “Why is the servant who ruined my coat yesterday still handling food?”
Rosa didn't even look up from her pastry dough. “Clara is a housekeeper, Miss Russo. She handles what Mr. Moretti asks her to handle.”
Bianca’s lips pressed into a thin line. She walked over to the island counter, leaning close to where I was slicing apples.
“You think you’re clever, don't you?” Bianca whispered, her tone dripping with venom. “Using a stray dog to get Matteo’s attention. I’ve known Matteo for six years. I know what he does to people who try to manipulate him.”
I set my paring knife down slowly.
“Miss Russo,” I said, keeping my voice even. “If I wanted Mr. Moretti’s attention, I wouldn't use a dog. I’d probably just start wearing red dresses and complaining about laundry.”
Rosa snorted into her flour bowl.
Bianca’s face flushed dark red. She leaned closer, her expensive perfume suffocatingly sweet. “Keep playing the brave, tragic victim, Clara. Let’s see how brave you are when Grant finishes what he started.”
My hand froze over the cutting board.
I hadn't mentioned Grant’s name to anyone on this estate except Matteo—and that had been in private, on my porch, late at night.
“What did you say?” I asked, turning to face her fully.
Bianca gave me a cold, triumphant smile. “Oh, did you think your little secrets were safe? Chicago is a small city, darling. When a needy little ex-wife runs away from her debts and hides in Lake Geneva, people talk. Especially when her ex-husband reaches out to Matteo’s business partners to ask why his property is living in a maid’s cottage.”
Before I could answer, the side door opened, and Bruno trotted into the kitchen.
His tail gave a single, hesitant wag when he saw me, but the moment he caught Bianca’s scent, his ears went flat. He stopped three feet away, his nostrils flaring.
Bianca took a quick step back toward the door, her confidence faltering. “Keep that beast away from me.”
Bruno ignored her, moving past her to sniff at a small burlap sack of ice-melt salt standing near the delivery entrance. He nudged it with his nose, then let out a sharp, high-pitched whine.
I frowned, dropping my apron, and walked over to him. “What is it, boy?”
The sack was open. Inside, mixed with the grey rock salt used for the walkways, were bright blue pellets.
Sweet-smelling, highly concentrated rodent poison.
My blood ran cold. The estate used non-toxic ice melt because of Bruno’s paws. Someone had deliberately dumped rat poison into the salt bag right beside the service entrance where Bruno frequently waited for his morning walk.
“Rosa,” I said quietly, my voice shaking with sudden fury. “Who brought the salt bags in this morning?”
Rosa looked up, surprised by my tone. “The delivery team from the city. They dropped them off at five AM. Leo checked the truck himself.”
I looked at Bianca.
She was staring at the blue pellets, her face pale, but her hands were steady as she adjusted her designer purse.
“Accidents happen,” Bianca said smoothly, though her eyes darted toward the hallway. “Servants drop things all the time.”
“This wasn't an accident,” I said, standing up and stepping between her and the door. “This salt was meant for the cottage path. The only path Bruno walks every morning.”
“Are you accusing me?” Bianca sneered, raising her chin. “You’re a maid! You clean my bathroom! If you think Matteo is going to take your word over mine—”
“He won't have to,” a deep voice rang out from the doorway.
Matteo stood in the threshold, dressed in a sharp charcoal suit, his coat folded over his arm. Leo stood right behind him, holding a tablet displaying live security feeds.
Matteo walked into the room slowly. His presence immediately swallowed all the air in the kitchen. He didn't look at Bianca; he walked straight to the salt bag, glanced at the blue pellets, and then looked at Bruno, who immediately moved to stand by my side.
“Leo,” Matteo said flatly. “Who had access to the service corridor between five and six AM?”
Leo tapped the screen on his tablet. His expression darkened. “Only two people, boss. The delivery driver... and Miss Russo’s driver, who picked up her luggage from the side entrance.”
Bianca’s breath hitched. “Matteo! That’s absurd! My driver was just moving my bags! He wouldn't touch rat poison!”
Matteo finally turned his head to look at her.
There was no anger in his eyes. That was the terrifying part. There was only an empty, clinical stillness—the look a man gives an obstacle he is about to remove permanently.
“You have five minutes to get into your car, Bianca,” Matteo said, his voice terrifyingly quiet. “If you or any of your staff are on my property after six minutes, Leo will handle it. And you know how Leo handles trespassers.”
Bianca gasped. “Matteo! You’re throwing me out over a servant and a dog? My father is your primary investor in the Indiana shipping yards!”
“Then tell your father to find a new logistics company,” Matteo said. “Get out.”
Bianca stared at him in utter disbelief, then snapped her gaze to me with pure, unadulterated hatred. She turned on her high heels and swept out of the kitchen, her coat trailing behind her like a shroud.
Once the door slammed shut, the kitchen fell into complete silence.
Rosa quietly picked up her pastry dough and moved into the pantry, closing the door behind her to give us privacy.
Matteo stood over the poisoned salt bag for a long moment before turning to me.
“She mentioned Grant,” I said softly, my hands trembling slightly against my apron. “She knew his name, Matteo. She knew he was looking for me.”
Matteo stepped closer to me. He reached out, his long fingers hovering near my shoulder, hesitation clear in his posture before he finally let his hand rest gently against my arm.
“Grant didn't just contact Bianca,” Matteo revealed quietly. “He sent a formal legal inquiry to my firm yesterday morning. He claims you took fifty thousand dollars from his personal account before you left Chicago.”
I gasped, my head snapping up. “That’s a lie! I left with four hundred dollars and a suitcase full of clothes I bought myself! I didn't take a dime from him!”
“I know,” Matteo said.
“How do you know?” I demanded, tears of frustration hot behind my eyes. “You don't know me! You’ve known me for three weeks!”
Matteo’s hand shifted from my shoulder to my jaw, his thumb gently catching a single tear that slipped down my cheek. His touch was warm, surprisingly soft for a man whose hands ordered violence every day.
“Because a woman who sits in the snow to comfort a damaged dog doesn't steal,” Matteo said softly. “And because I had Leo check Grant’s bank records three days ago. The fifty thousand was transferred to a gambling debt collector in Joliet two months before you left him.”
I stared at him, stunned into complete silence.
“He’s using Bianca to track you,” Matteo continued, his dark eyes searching my face. “And he’s using the threat of a legal warrant to force me to hand you over.”
“Will you?” I asked, my voice barely a whisper. “Hand me over?”
May you like
Matteo’s eyes darkened into something dangerous and breathtaking.
“Grant can have Chicago,” Matteo whispered, his thumb lightly tracing my cheekbone. “He can have the courts. He can have the whole world. But he will never, ever lay a hand on you again.”
