Chapter 3 - Shadows of the Past
Three days later, the snow turned to gray slush along the edges of Lake Geneva.
The estate had transformed into an armed fortress. Men in dark overcoats walked the perimeter every thirty minutes, their ears plugged with radio earpieces. Contractors had replaced my cottage windows with thick, heavy glass that didn't vibrate when the wind blew.
Through it all, Bruno remained attached to my side. His limp was improving thanks to the warm compresses and gentle joint exercises I did with him every morning on the cottage rug. He no longer growled when the guards walked past; he simply sat on the porch, a silent, 150-pound wall of muscle watching the tree line.
At 2:00 PM, I walked up to the main house to return a stack of freshly laundered linens to the master wing.
As I rounded the corner near the grand stone stables, a silver Mercedes sedan was idling near the guest archway. The driver’s side door opened, and a man stepped out into the damp cold.
My blood ran instantly cold.
He wore a tailored camel-hair coat, his dark hair neatly parted, a leather briefcase slung over his shoulder. He looked polished, successful, and thoroughly charming—the exact image he had presented to the family court judge three years ago.
Grant.
My ex-husband.
“Clara,” he said, a faint, condescending smile playing on his lips. He stepped onto the gravel path, adjusting his cuffs. “I must say, I didn't believe it when Bianca’s attorney told me. I thought, no way is Clara working as a domestic hand on the Moretti estate. But here you are, carrying towels like a good little girl.”
I stopped ten feet away. Bruno, who was trotting beside me, halted immediately. His ears went flat against his skull. A low, vibrating hum began in his chest—a sound so quiet it felt like an earthquake underground.
“What are you doing here, Grant?” I asked, keeping my voice flat, refusing to let him hear the tremor in my throat.
“I’m here on business,” Grant replied smoothly, taking a step closer. “My firm handles regional commercial insurance. Miss Russo was kind enough to recommend my services to Mr. Moretti’s legal team. Though I have to admit, seeing you in an apron really brings back memories.”
He looked me up and down, his eyes lingering on my worn winter boots and simple sweater.
“You always did have a knack for finding the bottom of the ladder, didn't you?” Grant sneered, stepping closer still. “You left me because you said you wanted ‘independence.’ And look at you. Cleaning toilets for a mobster. If you had just stayed home and followed instructions, you’d be living in a five-bedroom home in Naperville right now instead of playing maid.”
In the past, those words would have crippled me. They would have made me shrink, apologize, and look at the floor.
Instead, I looked Grant dead in the eye.
“I’d rather clean floors in a house where I am respected than live in a palace with a man who treated me like a broken appliance,” I said clearly.
Grant’s smile faltered. His eyes flashed with that familiar, ugly rage—the look he gave me right before he used to slam his palm against the kitchen wall next to my head.
“You haven't changed a bit,” Grant hissed, taking a sudden, aggressive stride toward me, raising his arm to grab my shoulder. “Still arrogant. Still thinking you’re smarter than—”
SNAP.
Bruno didn't bark. He didn't jump.
He simply lunged forward two feet, his massive black jaws snapping shut six inches from Grant’s outstretched hand. The sound of his teeth colliding sounded like a steel trap springing shut.
Grant shrieked like a terrified child, stumbling backward so fast his heels caught on the gravel border. He crashed flat onto his back in the wet slush, his leather briefcase popping open, scattering insurance documents across the muddy driveway.
Bruno stepped over him. He stood directly above Grant’s chest, placing one massive, muddy paw squarely onto the lapels of Grant’s expensive camel-hair coat.
Bruno lowered his face until his dripping nose was three inches from Grant’s pale, trembling lips.
A deep, ferocious growl rattled Bruno’s ribs.
“Clara!” Grant screamed, his face completely drained of color, his hands shaking hysterically as he pressed himself into the mud. “Call it off! Call this damn beast off! It’s insane!”
I walked forward slowly. I stood over Grant, looking down at the man who had tormented my thoughts for three years.
He looked small. Pathetic.
“His name is Bruno,” I said softly. “And he doesn't like people who raise their hands near me.”
“Get him off me!” Grant sobbed, tears cutting through the mud on his cheeks. “I’ll sue! I’ll have this animal put down! I’ll call the police!”
“You can try,” a deep voice drawled from the stone archway.
Matteo Moretti stepped into the courtyard. He was flanked by Leo and two armed guards. He wasn't wearing his suit jacket—just a black silk shirt with the sleeves rolled up, revealing the dark tattoos tracing his forearms.
Matteo walked over to where Grant lay pinned beneath the dog. He didn't look at Grant. He looked at me.
“Are you alright, Clara?” Matteo asked softly.
“I’m fine,” I said.
Matteo finally looked down at Grant. His expression was as cold and lifeless as a winter grave.
“Mr. Vance,” Matteo said smoothly. “I believe Miss Russo invited you here under the mistaken impression that I required new insurance brokers.”
“Your dog attacked me!” Grant sputtered, gasping for air under Bruno’s weight. “I’m a legitimate businessman! You can’t do this!”
“My dog didn't attack you,” Matteo replied calmly. “If Bruno had attacked you, we would currently be looking for a bag to put your arm in. He simply prevented an unwanted touch.”
Matteo gestured slightly with his hand. “Bruno. Heel.”
Bruno gave one final, warning huff against Grant’s face, then backed off calmly, returning to my left side and resting his head against my hip.
Grant scrambled up from the mud, clutching his ruined coat, his eyes wild with embarrassment and fury.
“You’re all crazy!” Grant yelled, backing toward his Mercedes. “She’s a broken, useless woman, Moretti! She ruins everything she touches! Ask anyone who knows her!”
Matteo took three slow, deliberate steps toward Grant. The air in the courtyard instantly turned lethal.
“If you speak her name again,” Matteo said, his voice dropping to a deadly whisper that carried across the quiet gravel, “if you step onto this property, or if you so much as glance in her direction while she is in town… I will not send Bruno. I will come myself.”
Grant swallowed hard, terror seizing his throat. He threw himself into the driver’s seat of his Mercedes, slammed the door, sped backward down the driveway, and tore through the front gates, leaving a trail of muddy tire tracks behind.
I stood in the cold air, my chest heaving.
Matteo turned to me. He picked up my dropped linen basket from the gravel, dusted off the edge, and held it out to me.
“He was wrong, you know,” Matteo said gently.
May you like
I looked at him. “About what?”
“You don't ruin things, Clara,” Matteo said softly, reaching out to brush a stray lock of hair behind my ear. “You just survived a man who was too small to appreciate what he had.”
