Chapter 3 - The Sanctuary of the West Wing
The private living quarters on the third floor of the Duca estate had not seen a child's laughter in over twenty years—not since Lorenzo and his sister were children before the blood wars tore their family apart.
When Lorenzo pushed open the heavy mahogany door to his private suite, the room felt cavernous, sterile, and shadowed. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked the sprawling, fog-draped estate grounds, and a massive stone fireplace stood cold and empty against the far wall.
He walked over to the oversized leather sofa near the hearth and gently set the little girl down. She sat there with her knees pulled up to her chest, still clutching her one-eyed stuffed rabbit tightly, watching his every move with wide, cautious brown eyes.
Pino trotted in right behind them, circled the rug twice, and laid his massive body down directly across the threshold of the door, acting as a living barricade against anyone who might dare approach.
Lorenzo pulled off his ruined suit jacket, tossed it over a chair, and rolled up his shirt sleeves. For the first time all day, the suffocating corporate weight of the Duca family crest felt slightly lighter off his shoulders.
"What is your name?" Lorenzo asked, keeping his voice soft, pitching it down so it wouldn't startle her.
She hesitated, her lips trembling slightly before she whispered, "Maya."
"Maya," he repeated, tasting the name on his tongue. It sounded entirely too delicate for a fortress built on blood and debts. "How old are you, Maya?"
"Three and a half," she held up three fingers proudly, though one finger wobbled. "And a half."
"Right. The half is important," Lorenzo nodded solemnly, pulling a small silver bell from the side table and ringing it once.
Within thirty seconds, the door clicked open, and Anna, the estate’s head cook—a stern woman with flour-dusted apron strings who had known Lorenzo since he was in knee-high trousers—stepped inside. Her eyes widened in absolute shock when she saw a dirty, tear-streaked child sitting on the master’s sofa, flanked by a vicious Doberman.
"Boss... I—is everything alright? Who brought a child into the private wing?" Anna stammered, her hands flying to her mouth.
"Anna, listen to me carefully," Lorenzo said, his voice carrying absolute, unarguable command. "Bring up a warm bath immediately. Find some clean clothes from the seamstress's emergency spare kits—something soft, no wool. And prepare a tray of hot chocolate, buttered toast, and fresh fruit. Put it on my private table."
Anna stared at him, her maternal instincts instantly overriding her decades of fear toward the Duca name. She looked at Maya, taking in the bruised knee and the terrified set of the child's shoulders, and her stern face softened completely.
"Right away, sir," Anna whispered, her voice thick with emotion. She turned quickly and hurried out down the hall, muttering under her breath about wicked housekeepers and cruel management.
Lorenzo turned back to Maya, who was watching him with a mixture of awe and suspicion.
"You're safe here, Maya," Lorenzo said, kneeling down once more so he was eye-level with her. "Nobody is taking your mother away. I give you my word."
Maya blinked, a tear finally escaping and rolling down her rosy cheek. "My mommy said nobody says no to the big man in the house. Are you the big man?"
May you like
Lorenzo let out a dry, humorless chuckle—the first real laugh he had produced in months.
"Yeah, Maya," he said softly, reaching out to gently brush a stray brown curl from her forehead. "I suppose I am."
