Chapter 2 - The First Night of Informal Support
The suite Gabriel showed her to was larger than the entire ground floor of her former home with Julian.
It was decorated in deep jewel tones—sapphire velvet curtains, dark walnut furniture, and a massive four-poster bed that looked soft enough to drown in. A fire crackled in the hearth, throwing warm, golden light across the room.
"Your belongings have been placed in the dressing room, Mrs. DeLuca," Gabriel said, his tone perfectly respectful, though the title made Claire’s stomach do a nervous flip.
"Thank you, Gabriel," Claire said, running a hand over the dry, clean clothes the staff had laid out for her. They were high-quality cashmere and silk, clearly selected with her curves in mind. "Where are the children?"
"They are in their quarters, madam. However, I must warn you... they rarely sleep. They will likely be awake until dawn."
After Gabriel departed, Claire changed into a soft cream-colored sweater and dark trousers. She looked at herself in the mirror. She was a woman of curves—full hips, a soft waist, and breasts that Julian’s mother had always suggested she hide beneath structureless beige linen. In the cream cashmere, she looked soft, warm, and entirely out of place in a mafia fortress.
The Midnight KitchenShe couldn't sleep. The silence of the mansion was too thick, punctuated only by the occasional distant murmur of security guards patrolling the grounds.
Claire crept down the back staircase, guided by the instinct of a professional chef. She found the industrial-grade kitchen in the basement of the manor. It was a masterpiece of stainless steel, copper pots, and high-end appliances, but it felt cold. Sterile.
She opened the massive walk-in refrigerator. Inside were expensive ingredients—prosciutto, imported cheeses, truffles—but nothing that looked like comfort.
With a soft sigh, Claire tied a clean linen apron around her waist. She pulled out flour, butter, sugar, and milk. She began to bake.
The physical labor of kneading dough, the rhythmic scraping of her wooden spoon against the copper bowl, and the sweet, rising scent of vanilla and yeast began to wash away the tension of her divorce. She was making cinnamon rolls—soft, pillowy, and heavy with glaze.
"You're making a mess," a small voice muttered from the doorway.
Claire turned. Leo stood there, his arms crossed over his chest, his dark hair messy. Behind him, Mateo hovered in the shadows, while Isabella peeked out from behind her brother's shoulder.
She pulled a warm tray of rolls from the oven. The scent of caramelized cinnamon sugar filled the room, instantly softening the cold, sterile air.
Claire didn't push them. She simply placed three warm rolls on small plates, set them on the kitchen island, and sat down on a stool, taking a slow sip of hot tea.
Slowly, one by one, the triplets climbed onto the stools. Isabella was the first to take a bite, her eyes widening as she let out a soft, happy sigh. Mateo followed, chewing thoughtfully, while Leo took his roll with a glare that was ruined by the crumb of sugar stuck to his chin.
"You can cook," Leo admitted, his voice defensive.
"I can," Claire said gently. "And as long as I am here, no one in this house will ever go hungry. Or feel alone in the dark."
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From the doorway, unnoticed by the children, Roman stood in the shadows. He watched his traumatized niblings eating, their small faces relaxed for the first time in six months. His gaze drifted to Claire, taking in the flour on her cheek, the warmth in her eyes, and the soft curve of her hips.
He didn't speak. He simply turned and walked back into the dark, his resolve hardening. He would destroy anyone who tried to take this warmth away from his home.
