Chapter 4 - The Footage
By three o'clock that afternoon, the sun had burned through the clouds, reflecting blinding white light off the snow-covered grounds.
I was in the main library, dusting the heavy leather-bound books on the upper shelves, trying to keep my hands busy so my mind wouldn't spiral. Bruno was curled up on the Persian rug below me, his nose resting on his paws, watching my every move.
The heavy library doors clicked open.
I expected Matteo or Leo. Instead, a man stood in the doorway whom I hadn't seen in six months.
Grant.
He wore his tailored navy overcoat, his hair parted with mathematical precision, holding a leather briefcase in one hand. He looked prosperous, polished, and entirely in control—the exact image he had presented to the world while tearing my self-worth to shreds behind closed doors for fourteen years.
My heart didn't just drop; it stopped entirely.
“Hello, Clara,” Grant said. His voice was smooth, cultured, and carried that familiar patronizing warmth that used to make me feel like a child being disciplined.
Bruno stood up instantly.
The dog didn't bark. He lowered his head, his upper lip pulling back to reveal white, lethal fangs. A growl started deep in his chest—a sound so gut-wrenching it made the crystal glass in the cabinets vibrate.
Grant froze, his smug smile faltering as he looked at the 150-pound beast stepping between him and me.
“Get that animal away from me,” Grant ordered, taking a step back toward the hallway.
“Bruno, stay,” I commanded, my voice trembling slightly before finding its footing.
Bruno didn't back down, but he held his ground, a black wall standing between me and my past.
I climbed down from the library ladder, holding my polishing cloth tightly in my fist. “How did you get in here, Grant?”
“I have business with Mr. Moretti,” Grant said, recovering his composure and adjusting his coat. “And as it turns out, his security team is surprisingly reasonable when you present them with a court-ordered subpoena for stolen property.”
He pulled a thin flash drive from his pocket and held it up between two fingers.
“You always were clumsy, Clara,” Grant said, taking a slow step around the edge of the room, keeping a wide berth from Bruno. “Spilling water. Breaking dishes. Leaving doors unlocked. But this time, you really outdid yourself.”
“I didn't steal your money, Grant,” I said, standing tall beside Bruno. “And you know it.”
“It doesn't matter what I know,” Grant sneered lightly. “What matters is what’s on this drive. Hidden camera footage from our house in Chicago. Hours of it. It shows you taking envelopes out of my study safe. It shows you packing your bags at two in the morning. It shows a pathetic, unstable woman taking things that don't belong to her.”
My breath hitched. “You put cameras in my bedroom?”
“I put cameras in my house,” Grant corrected, his eyes flashing with dark satisfaction. “To protect my assets. And right now, you are an asset that left without permission.”
He took another step toward me.
“Here’s how this goes, Clara,” Grant whispered, leaning forward. “You drop this ridiculous maid act. You tell Matteo Moretti that you made a mistake, that you’re coming home with me to settle our financial 'dispute' quietly. Or I give this footage to the press, to the police, and to every client Moretti works with. I’ll make sure everyone knows he’s harboring a thief.”
I looked at the flash drive in his hand.
Fourteen years of conditioning screamed at me to yield. To make the noise go away. To appease him so he wouldn't yell, so he wouldn't look at me like I was something dirt beneath his shoes.
Then I felt Bruno’s warm shoulder pressing against my leg.
I looked down at the dog. Bruno had been beaten, trapped, and labeled dangerous by people who thought strength meant control. But he hadn't broken. He had just waited for someone to give him a choice.
I looked back up at Grant.
“No,” I said.
Grant blinked, genuine surprise flickering across his face. “What?”
“I said no,” I repeated, my voice growing stronger, echoing off the high wooden ceiling of the library. “I’m not going anywhere with you. I don't care about your fake footage. I don't care about your press. And I am never, ever stepping into a room with you alone again.”
Grant’s face twisted into an ugly, furious mask. He raised his hand, stepping forward aggressively—
“Touch her, and you won't leave this room with both hands.”
Matteo stood in the hidden doorway behind the bookshelf.
He had removed his suit jacket, wearing only his dark vest and rolled-up white shirt sleeves. In his right hand, he held a dark metal silenced pistol, held loosely at his side.
Behind him, Leo stood with two armed men, their weapons drawn and raised.
Grant went entirely pale. The flash drive slipped from his fingers, clattering loudly against the hardwood floor.
“Moretti,” Grant stammered, raising his hands quickly. “This is a civil matter! I have a legal warrant—"
“You are on private land in Lake Geneva, Mr. Vance,” Matteo said, stepping into the room with quiet, predatory grace. “Where civil law ends, and my law begins.”
Matteo kicked the flash drive across the floor. Bruno immediately stepped on it with a heavy paw, crushing the plastic casing into useless splinters under his weight.
Grant watched his leverage crumble into dust. “You can't do this! I have contacts in the Chicago PD!”
“Your contacts in Chicago work for me,” Matteo said flatly. He stopped in front of Grant, towering over him by three inches. “You brought false charges against my employee. You trespassed on my estate. And you threatened a woman under my protection.”
Matteo reached out, grabbing Grant by the back of his expensive silk tie, pulling him down until their faces were inches apart.
“If I ever see your car on the highway between Chicago and Lake Geneva again,” Matteo whispered, his voice smooth as glass and cold as ice, “I won't call the police. I will call a crew with shovels. Do you understand me?”
Grant swallowed hard, nodding rapidly, his entire body trembling with cowardice.
“Leo,” Matteo commanded without breaking eye contact. “Throw him over the south gate. If he drops anything else on my land, shoot it.”
“With pleasure, boss,” Leo said, grabbing Grant by the arm and dragging him out of the library like a sack of laundry.
When the library doors slammed shut, silence returned to the room.
I stood by the window, my hands shaking, my knees feeling weak as the adrenaline began to fade.
Matteo turned to me. He stepped closer, reaching out to take my hand, but I pulled it back sharply.
Matteo froze, his hand hanging in the air between us.
“Clara?” he asked gently.
I looked at him, tears finally overflowing my eyes, but they weren't tears of fear. They were tears of pure, desperate frustration.
“You handled him,” I said, my voice cracking.
“He threatened you,” Matteo said, frowning slightly. “He came into my home—”
“And you treated him like a competitor you were driving off your turf!” I shouted, stepping back from him. “You didn't ask me what I wanted! You stepped in, you raised a gun, and you handled it like I was a piece of property being contested by two men!”
Matteo’s jaw tightened. “I saved you from him, Clara!”
“I was already standing up to him!” I screamed back. “I told him no! For the first time in fourteen years, I stood on my own two feet and told him no! And before I could finish, you walked in with guns to prove that you’re the bigger, scarier owner!”
Matteo stared at me, genuinely shocked by my anger.
“I am not Grant,” Matteo said quietly, his voice hard.
May you like
“Then stop acting like him!” I snapped. “Loving me—protecting me—does not mean owning me, Matteo! I am not Bruno! You cannot just give orders and expect me to heel!”
I turned on my heel, grabbed my coat from the chair, and walked out of the library, leaving the most feared man in Chicago standing alone in the dark.
