Chapter 7 - The Gathering Storm
Two weeks passed, transforming the dynamic inside the Russo estate completely.
Bea’s life changed overnight. She no longer scrubbed floors or washed heavy linens. She moved into a stunning, sunlit guest suite on the second floor, filled with fresh flowers, soft rugs, and a wardrobe of elegant, comfortable clothes Dominic had personally ordered for her.
Mrs. Bell no longer dared make snide remarks. Whenever the head housekeeper encountered Bea in the hallways, she lowered her eyes and spoke with rigid, polite deference. The guards outside cleared a path whenever Bea walked through the gardens with Leo.
Most importantly, Leo thrived. With Bea constantly by his side, the young boy’s nightmares ceased almost entirely. His laughter filled the once-silent halls of the mansion, bringing a warmth to the cold stone house that hadn't existed since his mother’s death.
And Dominic... Dominic was a changed man.
He came home early every single evening. He sat at the dining table for every meal, holding Bea’s hand beneath the linen tablecloth while Leo babbled about his school day. At night, after Leo was fast asleep, Dominic would lead Bea into his master suite, holding her through the dark hours as if she were the anchor keeping him tethered to the living world.
For fourteen days, Bea lived in a fairy tale.
But in Dominic Russo’s world, fairy tales were always bought with blood, and the bill was coming due.
On a chilly Thursday afternoon, while Leo was at private preschool and Dominic was in the city managing his shipping yards, a sleek silver Bentley pulled up the long circular driveway of the estate.
Bea was sitting in the glass conservatory, reading a book, when the heavy glass doors opened.
Frankie Russo walked in.
He wasn't dressed in his usual flashy suit. He wore a dark leather jacket, his hair slightly disheveled, a sinister, bitter smile playing on his lips as he looked around the sunlit room.
Bea stood up immediately, her heart taking a nervous leap. “Mr. Frankie. Dominic isn't home.”
“I know he isn't,” Frankie said smoothly, stepping into the conservatory and leaning against a iron plant stand. “He’s down at the docks, dealing with a union strike I helped organize.”
Bea’s eyes narrowed. “What do you want?”
Frankie chuckled, taking a slow step toward her. His eyes swept over her tailored cashmere sweater and dark trousers, taking in her transformation with bitter jealousy.
“Look at you,” Frankie sneered. “From a quiet little mouse scrubbing my brother’s toilets to the queen of the castle in less than a month. You must be really good in bed, Beatrice.”
Bea’s cheeks burned, but she held her ground, remembering Dominic’s voice in her head. “Leave this house, Frankie. Before I call Dominic’s personal line.”
Frankie’s smile vanished, replaced by an ugly, menacing glare.
“Call him,” Frankie spat. “Go ahead. Tell him his little arrangement is about to crumble. Do you really think a man like Dominic Russo falls in love with a maid, Beatrice? Do you think he brought you into his bed because he respects you?”
Bea swallowed hard, forcing her voice to remain steady. “Dominic cares about me.”
“Dominic is using you!” Frankie snapped, taking two sharp steps forward until he was standing right in front of her. “Three years ago, when his wife died, the board of the Russo family instituted a clause in our charter. A widowed boss who doesn't remarry or establish a stable household within three years loses his voting control over the shipping syndicate. The three-year deadline is next month.”
Bea felt the blood drain from her face. “What?”
Frankie grinned, seeing the hit land.
“Dominic needed a woman in this house to look stable for the family board,” Frankie rasped, leaning in closer. “He couldn't pick a high-society woman because they’d ask too many questions about his business. So he picked you. A quiet, soft, desperate little maid who had nowhere else to go and would do whatever he asked just for a nice room and a warm bed.”
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Bea’s breath hitched in her throat, a cold, sickening knot forming in her stomach.
“You’re a prop, Beatrice,” Frankie whispered maliciously. “A pretty little placeholder to keep his empire from falling into my hands. The second the board confirms his leadership next month, he’ll throw you right back into the gutter where he found you.”
