Chapter 1 - THE TRUST OF A MONSTER
Clara knelt back down on the freezing stone of the courtyard, ignoring the snow soaking through the knees of her uniform skirt. She didn't reach for Bruno immediately. Instead, she lowered her head slightly, refusing to lock eyes with the massive Cane Corso, and slowly pulled a coarse, dry cotton towel from the laundry basket beside her.
“I’m going to sit here,” Clara said quietly, keeping her voice low and even. “You can come over if you want. If you don’t, that’s fine too.”
The courtyard remained dead silent. Every guard, servant, and guest watched as the girl who had dropped a coffee tray forty-eight hours ago sat cross-legged in a puddle of soapy ice water.
Bruno let out a huff, steam puffing from his broad black snout. His ears twitched toward the sound of her calm voice. Slowly, deliberately, the massive hound took two heavy steps forward. His bad hind leg hitched slightly, but he didn't growl. He stopped six inches from Clara, lowered his massive, scarred head, and nudged her trembling hands with his cold nose.
Clara let out a breath she hadn't realized she was holding. She didn't throw her arms around him or make sudden movements. She wrapped the thick towel over his powerful shoulders and began rubbing in long, steady, soothing strokes, applying warm pressure to his stiff hips.
Bruno let out a deep, chest-rattling sigh and leaned his entire one-hundred-and-fifty-pound weight directly into her lap.
A visible shockwave ran through the spectators. The head groomer’s mouth hung open. Bianca Russo stepped backward, her face twisting in disbelief as the dog that had put three men in the emergency room settled against the clumsy maid like a sleepy puppy.
Matteo Moretti stepped out from under the archway. His polished black leather shoes stopped two feet from Clara. He looked down at his dog, then at Clara’s soaked hands working patiently through the wet black fur.
“He doesn't let anyone touch his hips,” Matteo said softly, his voice cutting through the crisp winter air.
“Because his hips hurt,” Clara replied without looking up, continuing her rhythmic strokes. “When people try to force him into a cold groom room, they pull on his back legs. He isn't vicious, Mr. Moretti. He’s just protecting himself.”
Matteo stared at her for a long, quiet moment. The dark intensity in his gray eyes was heavy enough to make stronger men look away, but Clara was too focused on drying Bruno’s wet ears to notice.
“Rosa,” Matteo called out without lifting his gaze.
The head housekeeper stepped forward nervously from the kitchen entry. “Yes, Signor Moretti?”
“Clara Hayes is no longer a third-floor laundry maid,” Matteo commanded. His voice carried a flat, absolute authority that admitted no debate. “Move her belongings from the basement staff quarters to the garden suite in the east wing.”
Bianca gasped. “Matteo! The east wing is for family and honored guests! You cannot put a clumsy girl from the laundry in—”
Matteo didn't even turn his head toward Bianca. “As of this moment, Clara is Bruno’s sole handler and companion. She answers directly to me. No one else gives her orders. No one else assigns her chores.”
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Clara froze, her hands still resting on Bruno’s damp back. “Mr. Moretti, I... I don't know anything about estate dogs. I was hired to wash linens.”
“You know how to look at him without fear,” Matteo said, his sharp eyes pinning her to the stone. “That makes you more useful than anyone else on this property. Go clean yourself up. When you are warm, report to my private study.”
