Chapter 3 - The Surgical Mind
Upstairs in the master suite, the air smelled of ozone and unscented lotion.
Vivienne Cross sat at the mahogany vanity table with her back to the door, brushing her dark auburn hair with slow, rhythmic strokes. She wore a simple charcoal silk robe, her collarbones sharp and pale against the dark fabric.
The door clicked open. Dante stepped inside, locking it behind him with a heavy, deliberate turn of the brass deadbolt.
Vivienne did not stop brushing her hair. She watched him in the gilded mirror, her gray eyes as calm and unreadable as a frozen lake.
"You didn't knock," she said.
"It's my room," Dante replied, walking toward her with measured steps. He stopped two feet behind her chair, looking down at her reflection. "And my house."
"Your house has drafty windows. You should have the seals replaced before winter, or the nursery will get too cold for the boy."
"You spend a lot of time thinking about the nursery."
Vivienne laid the silver-backed brush down on the vanity table. She turned her chair around, crossing one leg over the other, her hands resting calmly in her lap.
"I live in the nursery's shadow, Dante. It’s hard to ignore a child who cries in E-minor every time the wind picks up."
"Clara was in your things today."
Vivienne didn't blink. "The maid?"
"She found your scalpels."
"Did she cut herself?" Vivienne asked, her tone entirely devoid of sarcasm. "They're carbon steel. They slice through epidermis before you even feel the sting. It would be a messy cleanup on your imported rugs."
Dante leaned his hips against the edge of the vanity, invading her personal space. He towered over her, his large frame radiating heat and suppressed tension. "She thinks you're dangerous."
"Clara is a sentimental girl," Vivienne said, her voice smooth and unhurried. "She collects stray cats, listens to soap operas on the radio, and derives her entire self-worth from being indispensable to a dead man’s baby. Of course she thinks I'm dangerous. I don't smell like lavender and submission."
"She told me you were staring out the window, measuring the distance to the gates."
A faint, bitter smile touched the corner of Vivienne's lips. "And what did you tell her?"
"I told her to go to bed."
"Wise." Vivienne looked up, her gray eyes locking onto his with an intensity that made the hair on the back of Dante’s neck stand up. "You’re wondering if my father sent me here to finish what the car bomb started."
Dante’s jaw tightened. "The thought crossed my mind."
"If my father wanted Leo dead, he wouldn't send a surgeon," Vivienne said quietly, standing up to face him. She was tall—nearly five-foot-eight—and she didn't shrink away from his bulk. "He would send a truckload of high explosives and a couple of boys from Milwaukee with automatic weapons. You know how my father operates. He lacks subtlety."
"Then why are you here, Vivienne?" Dante asked, his voice dropping to a gravelly register. He reached out, his large calloused hand wrapping around her bare wrist. Her skin was cool, but her pulse beat steadily beneath his thumb. "Your father forced this match. You didn't fight him. You packed your bags, moved into a fortress surrounded by men who want your family dead, and you sit in the library like a ghost. What are you waiting for?"
"I'm waiting for you to realize that the danger in this house isn't coming from across the northern border," Vivienne whispered, her voice dropping so low he had to lean down to catch the words.
Dante stared at her. "Explain that."
"Look at the staff, Dante. Look at who controls the kitchen, who manages the nursery logs, who has access to the dispensary where your personal physician keeps the sedative supplies." She tilted her head slightly. "Clara Bell has been here two years. She survived Marco and Elena’s deaths without a scratch. She stayed when everyone else ran. Do you really believe someone with that kind of survival instinct is just a sweet little nanny from the suburbs?"
Dante’s grip on her wrist tightened involuntarily. "Clara is loyal."
"Clara is terrified," Vivienne corrected sharply. "And terror makes people do very strange things."
For a long moment, the space between them hummed with static electricity. Dante looked down at her lips, remembering the contract they had signed, the political theater they were expected to perform in three weeks. For a fraction of a second, he wanted to pull her against him, to test the steel beneath her porcelain exterior.
Instead, he released her wrist, stepping back.
"Stay away from the nursery tomorrow," Dante ordered coldly.
Vivienne didn't flinch. She rubbed her wrist where his fingers had left a faint pink imprint. "Leo has an ear infection starting. His left eardrum is slightly hyperemic. If you don't start him on amoxicillin by tomorrow morning, he’ll spike a fever that will wake up half the estate."
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Dante paused at the door, turning his head. "How do you know that?"
"Because I checked him while you were downstairs arguing with your accountants," she said flatly, turning back to her vanity. "I may not be your wife yet, Dante, but I am still a doctor. And unlike your staff... I don't lie about what I see."
