Chapter 3
The elevator hummed as it carried Vincent down to the ground floor.
The house had been retrofitted with it shortly after he was discharged from the hospital—an ugly glass tube ruining the aesthetics of the grand staircase. He had used it exactly twice.
He sat rigid in his wheelchair, wearing the navy Brioni suit. It was a little loose around the thighs now, but the jacket fit perfectly across his broad shoulders. Tessa had spent twenty minutes making sure he looked immaculate. His hair was slicked back, his jaw cleanly shaved. He wore his Patek Philippe watch.
He looked like Vincent Corvino again. Save for the wheels beneath him.
Tessa stood behind the chair, her hands resting lightly on the push handles.
“I can push myself,” Vincent said quietly as the elevator neared the ground floor.
“I know,” Tessa replied. “But a king doesn’t push his own carriage.”
Vincent didn’t smile, but a profound warmth settled in his chest. He reached back blindly, his large hand finding hers where it rested on the handle. He squeezed her fingers once—a silent acknowledgment.
She squeezed back. Grounding him.
The elevator doors chimed and slid open. The low hum of conversation from the formal dining room drifted down the hallway, punctuated by the clinking of crystal glasses and raucous laughter.
Vincent rolled himself forward out of the elevator. Tessa walked half a step behind him, a silent shadow.
As they approached the open double doors of the dining room, the laughter grew louder. He stopped just outside the threshold.
Inside, ten men sat around his custom-built mahogany table. Dominic, his underboss, sat at the head—his seat. Dominic was smoking a cigar, his feet kicked up on the rung of a neighboring chair. Arya was leaning over him, pouring a dark amber liquid into his glass, her hand lingering on Dominic’s shoulder a second too long.
“So I told the union rep, ‘You either take the deal or the concrete truck stops rolling on Tuesday,'” Dominic was saying, waving his cigar. The table erupted in chuckles.
Vincent pushed the wheels of his chair. He rolled into the room.
The thick carpets silenced his entry, but it didn’t matter. The air in the room seemed to drop ten degrees.
One by one, the men noticed him. The laughter died in their throats. Glasses were slowly lowered to the table. Men who had killed without remorse suddenly found themselves staring at their plates, the table, the walls.
Dominic froze, the cigar halfway to his mouth.
Arya gasped, taking a quick step back from Dominic, nearly dropping the heavy crystal decanter.
“Vincent.” She stammered, her face pale. “What—what are you doing down here? The doctor said you need rest.”
“The doctor isn’t my boss, Arya.” Vincent’s voice wasn’t loud, but it carried effortlessly, cutting through the cigar smoke and the silence.
He rolled forward directly toward the head of the table.
Dominic stared at him, a flicker of panic behind his eyes before he scrambled to his feet. He nearly knocked his chair over in his haste to get out of the way.
“Vince,” Dominic said, forcing a grin that didn’t reach his eyes. “We didn’t expect you. Arya said you were having a bad day.”
“I was having a quiet day,” Vincent said, pulling his wheelchair into the space Dominic had just vacated at the head of the table. He looked around at the faces of his crew. Paulie. Frank. Sylvio. “Until I heard rats in the walls.”
The silence was absolute.
Arya stepped forward, her heels clicking nervously.
“Vincent, please. You’re embarrassing yourself. Let’s get you back upstairs.” She snapped her fingers at Tessa, noticing the maid standing quietly near the doorway. “Tessa. Take him back to his room. Immediately.”
Tessa didn’t move. She kept her eyes on Vincent.
“Tessa works for me, Arya,” Vincent said smoothly. “Not for you.”
He reached for a glass of water on the table. His hand, usually steady, trembled slightly from the adrenaline and the immense physical effort of sitting unsupported in the suit. As his fingers wrapped around the heavy crystal, his grip slipped.
The glass tipped. Fell. Shattered against the mahogany table, sending water and shards cascading onto his lap and the floor.
A collective breath was drawn in the room.
This was the moment. The confirmation of his weakness. Dominic’s eyes flashed with a brief, ugly triumph. A man who couldn’t even hold a glass of water.
Arya let out a sound of absolute disgust.
“For God’s sake, Vincent. Look at what you’ve done. You’re making a mess of everything. I told you—you shouldn’t be down here.”
She looked at Dominic, rolling her eyes in an appeal for sympathy.
Vincent sat frozen. The water soaked into his expensive trousers. He couldn’t feel it, but he knew how it looked. The humiliation threatened to choke him. He had gambled his dignity, and he had lost in front of his entire crew.
He closed his eyes, preparing to turn the chair around and retreat to his tomb.
Then motion.
Tessa was suddenly at his side. She didn’t have a towel. She didn’t call for the other staff. She picked up a pristine white cloth napkin from the table, ignoring the stares of the deadliest men in Chicago, and knelt beside his chair.
She began to wipe the water from his trousers. Meticulously. Picking up the shards of glass.
“Leave it!” Vincent growled, his pride bleeding out. “Just get me out of here.”
Tessa paused. She looked up at him, ignoring the audience.
“A spilled glass of water doesn’t drown a man, Mr. Corvino.”
Her voice was clear. Calm. She stood up, placing the damp napkin and the broken glass onto a silver tray. She turned to face the table, her gaze sweeping over the hardened criminals and settling on Arya.
“Mr. Corvino would prefer bourbon,” Tessa said, staring directly at the fiancée. “Since you have the decanter, Miss Harrington—would you pour it? Or should I?”
The audacity of the maid struck the room like a physical blow.
Arya’s mouth opened, but no words came out. Dominic stared at Tessa as if she had grown a second head.
Vincent looked at Tessa, standing tall by his side, defending his dignity when his own body had betrayed him.
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She wasn’t just a maid. She was a soldier.
His soldier.
