Chapter Two: The Office And The Rule

She finished the windows methodically.

Still humming, but more quietly now. Conscious of ears that might be listening.

The penthouse was eerily silent most days.

Mr. Russo rarely entertained guests here. This place seemed to be his sanctuary. Not a showcase like the homes of other wealthy clients.

When she reached his office, she knocked softly despite knowing it was empty.

He was never there during cleaning hours.

A rule his head of security, Marco, had emphasized repeatedly on her first day.

“Mr. Russo values his privacy,” he’d said, his hand resting casually on the gun beneath his jacket. “Clean what you’re told to clean. Don’t touch anything else.”

The office was immaculate.

As always.

Not a paper out of place on the mahogany desk. Not a speck of dust on the leather-bound books lining the walls.

She dusted silently.

The song dying in her throat.

This room always felt like entering a confessional.

Sacred. Secretive. Dangerous.

She was reaching for the crystal decanter to polish it when she heard the door open.

Spinning around, she found herself face to face with Mr. Russo himself.

Breaking his own cardinal rule.

“Sir, I’m sorry.”

“You were singing it again.”

His voice was soft. But carried the unmistakable weight of a command.

“What the song?”

“Sing it.”

He closed the door behind him.

Leaning against it.

The room suddenly felt smaller. The air thicker.

She clutched the polishing cloth against her chest like a shield.

“I don’t really sing in front of people, sir.”

His dark eyes narrowed slightly.

“You were singing for the past hour.”

“I was humming. It’s different.”

She bit her lip immediately, regretting the show of defiance.

To her surprise, one corner of his mouth lifted.

What might have been the ghost of a smile.

“You’re not afraid of me.”

It wasn’t a question.

But she answered anyway.

“I’m terrified of you, sir.”

That almost-smile widened slightly.

“Yet you argue.”

Her hand trembled.

She set down the crystal before she could drop it.

“I should finish cleaning the other rooms.”

“Sing for me, and you can go.”

She stared at him.

Trying to understand what was happening.

Vincenzo Russo was notorious for many things. But musical appreciation wasn’t one of them.

The women who came and went from his life. Models. Actresses. Socialites. They were paraded on his arm at events. Then discarded within weeks.

None lasted.

None mattered.

And here he was demanding a song from his maid.

She took a shaky breath.

And began to sing.

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