Chapter 4 - The Threat from the Past
A month passed, and the rhythm of life inside the Vance estate transformed completely. The west wing pantry was now "Emma’s Kitchen," a bustling hub where guards, staff, and even the dark don himself found excuses to linger.
Emma’s presence had an undeniable effect on the household. She didn't treat the armed guards like monsters; she fed them warm sausage rolls and learned their names. She didn't treat Lucian like a terrifying mob boss; she argued with him about his late-night drinking habits and forced him to sit down for family dinners with Sophie.
Most importantly, she became Sophie’s anchor. Emma spent hours every day teaching the girl advanced ASL, helping her express her grief over her mother, and giving her the confidence she had lost.
However, outside the stone walls, a storm was brewing.
In a dimly lit cigar lounge in Manhattan, Don Mateo Moretti pounded his fist onto a glass table. "What do you mean she survived?" he roared at his captains. "And who is this woman?"
"She’s a nobody, Don Mateo," one of his men stuttered. "A baker from Brooklyn. Emma Brooks. Plus-sized, no political ties, no family in the syndicate. But Vance has locked her up in his upstate estate like she’s the Queen of England. He’s transferred half his personal guard to protect her."
Mateo’s eyes narrowed into dark slits. He had been trying to break Lucian Vance for years. He knew that physical attacks against Lucian were useless; the man was a force of nature. To destroy Vance, one had to destroy what he cared about.
"A baker," Mateo sneered, a cruel smile spreading across his face. "Lucian lost his wife, and now he’s hiding a fat little commoner and his mute brat behind high walls. If she means that much to him, she is his new heel. Find a way inside."
Back at the estate, the tension was palpable. Lucian’s phone rang incessantly. He spent long hours locked in his study, the smell of heavy tobacco smoke leaking under the door.
One evening, after Sophie had fallen asleep, Emma walked up to the study with a tray holding a plate of warm apple galette and a pot of chamomile tea. She knocked twice and walked in without waiting for an answer.
Lucian was standing at the floor-to-ceiling window, staring out into the foggy night, his shirt unbuttoned at the collar, looking exhausted.
"I told the guards I didn't want to be disturbed," he said smoothly, without turning around.
"The guards know better than to stand between me and a man neglecting his health," Emma replied, setting the tray on his massive mahogany desk.
Lucian turned, a faint, rare ghost of a smile touching his lips before disappearing. "You are very bold for a woman living in a house full of murderers, Emma."
"You're not a murderer to me," she said softly, walking over to stand beside him at the window. "You're a father trying to keep his world from collapsing."
Lucian looked down at her. In the soft moonlight, Emma’s pale skin seemed to glow. She wore a simple green sweater that clung to her curves, her hair tied in a loose, messy bun. She wasn't like the sleek, airbrushed women of his social circle who looked at him with calculated ambition or underlying terror. Emma was real. She was warmth, life, and unyielding strength.
"Moretti is moving his men," Lucian admitted, his voice low and dangerous. "He wants blood because I cut off his supply lines in New Jersey. He thinks you are my weakness."
"Am I?" Emma asked, her heart hammering against her ribs as she held his gaze. "A weakness?"
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Lucian stepped closer, his hand rising almost involuntarily to cup her soft cheek. His thumb brushed over her skin with breathtaking tenderness.
"No," Lucian whispered, his storm-gray eyes darkening with an emotion he hadn't felt in years. "You are not my weakness, Emma. You are the only thing keeping me human."
