Chapter 2: The Monster’s Castle and an Angel’s Laugh
Beatrice moved into the Romano estate on Friday afternoon with nothing but two battered suitcases. The mansion was so cavernous she genuinely feared she might get lost in a hallway and starve before finding the kitchen.
Her quarters were right next to Leo’s. It was a massive suite featuring a plush king-sized bed and floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking a gray, churning Lake Michigan. It was bigger than her entire apartment combined.
"Miss Miller," a deep voice rumbled from the doorway.
Beatrice jumped, nearly dropping the decorative pillow she was holding. Dominic was leaning against the doorframe. His suit jacket was gone, his hands were tucked into his trousers, and his white dress shirt sleeves were rolled up, exposing intricate black tattoos curling up his thick forearms. He looked less like a corporate titan now, and entirely like a predator.
"Mr. Romano! I was just... unpacking."
"The rules of this house are simple," Dominic said, stepping into the room and tossing a small leather-bound folder onto the dresser.
Rule 1: The basement and the West Wing are strictly off-limits after 9:00 PM.
Rule 2: Do not question the guests who arrive in the middle of the night.
Rule 3: Whatever Leo wants, Leo gets.
Beatrice nodded rapidly. "Understood. I’m not a curious person."
Dominic studied her. Today, she wore an oversized mustard-yellow sweater and stretchy jeans. She looked soft, warm, and entirely out of place in a mansion built on cold steel, black glass, and monochrome marble. Yet, he couldn’t seem to tear his eyes away.
"Leo is waiting in the playroom," Dominic said, his gaze lingering a second too long. "Don't disappoint me."
Leo’s playroom was a paradise of toys, but the boy was sitting in the corner with his drawing pad. When Beatrice walked in, his large, solemn eyes brightened a fraction.
"Hi, Leo," Beatrice said, plop-sitting right on the carpet, completely unbothered by the dirt or her jeans. She pulled out a basket of colorful plastic balls. "Want to try a tossing game?"
She picked up a ball, intending to throw it into a hoop a few feet away to demonstrate. But, true to form, her clumsiness struck. The ball flew wildly off-course, smashed into an expensive ceramic vase on the shelf, and bounced right back—smack—straight into Beatrice’s forehead.
"Ouch!" Beatrice groaned, tumbling backward onto her back.
She squeezed her eyes shut, bracing for Leo to cry from the loud noise, or for a bodyguard to come rushing in. But instead, a sound like silver bells echoed through the room.
"Hehe... Haha-ha!"
Leo was laughing. The little boy was holding his stomach, laughing so hard tiny tears gathered in his eyes, pointing his finger at the sprawled-out Beatrice.
Beatrice peeked open one eye, her heart melting. She pulled a funny face, sticking her tongue out. "Well, that hoop is a cheater, Leo! It dodged my ball!"
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Leo’s laughter grew louder, and he scrambled across the floor, climbing right into her lap. The warmth of the moment was interrupted by a slight shadow at the door. Beatrice looked up and saw Dominic standing there.
He didn’t say a word. But his large, scarred hands were gripping the doorframe so tightly his knuckles were white. The feared mafia boss, a man who ordered executions without blinking, had a thin shimmer of tears in his pitch-black eyes.
