“Put the gun away! I’m trying to save his paperwork!”
Those were the first words I ever shouted inside Dominic Castellano’s private office.
A twenty-pound brown puppy named Biscotti was racing ahead of me with a confidential folder between his teeth, two armed bodyguards were behind me, and I had exactly six days of experience working in a mansion where apparently even the dogs ignored boundaries.
“Biscotti! Drop it!”
He accelerated.
The puppy shot through a pair of double doors.
I followed.
Then everyone in the room went silent.
Dominic Castellano sat behind a massive walnut desk, dressed entirely in black. People in the city lowered their voices when they said his name. His family controlled real estate, shipping, construction, nightclubs, and other businesses nobody discussed openly.
Biscotti stopped on Dominic’s expensive rug and shook the folder.
“Oh, absolutely not.”
I lunged.
He dodged.
My shoe slipped.
I dropped backward into Dominic Castellano’s leather chair hard enough to knock his reading glasses off the desk.
They landed perfectly on my face.
Nobody breathed.
Biscotti sat down.
I pushed Dominic’s glasses higher on my nose and pointed at him.
“You’re impossible.”
Then Dominic laughed.
Not a polite chuckle. He leaned against his desk, covered his mouth, failed to stop himself, and laughed so hard one of his guards looked frightened.
I stayed frozen.
“Well,” I said, “I assume this is where I update my résumé.”
That made him laugh again.
Eventually, his face settled.
“You entered my private office.”
“The dog stole this from the breakfast tray. Everyone outside acted like opening your door would summon Satan, and honestly, the dog seemed like the smaller problem.”
Someone coughed.
Dominic glanced toward the sound.
Instant silence.
“What is your name?”
“Marin Holloway.”
“How long have you worked here, Miss Holloway?”
“Six days.”
“And nobody explained that this office is private?”
“They did.”
His eyebrow rose.
“Several times.”
Biscotti walked over and sat directly on Dominic’s shoe.
“In my defense, your criminal is very persuasive.”
The corner of Dominic’s mouth moved.
Then Victoria Sloan appeared.
She ran the household with military precision and looked at me like I was a stain on the carpet.
“Mr. Castellano, I apologize. Miss Holloway is temporary staff. This breach will be addressed immediately.”
My stomach dropped.
I needed this job.
Six months earlier, my family’s Pennsylvania bakery had closed after forty-three years. The bank took the equipment, the landlord took the building, and I was left with $28,000 in personal debt from trying to save it.
Dominic looked at Victoria.
“What breach?”
“Entering your office without authorization.”
“She recovered my property.”
“Yes, sir, but—”
“And now it has been recovered.”
Victoria understood the warning.
“Of course.”
Dominic looked at me.
“You may go, Miss Holloway.”
I hurried toward the door.
“Miss Holloway.”
I turned.
He held out his hand.
I realized I still had his glasses.
“Oh.”
I placed them in his palm. Our fingers touched briefly.
“Thank you,” he said.
“You’re welcome.”
I pointed at Biscotti.
“You’re on your own.”
Outside, Teresa, an older maid who had been training me, grabbed my wrist.
“He asked your name.”
“I know. I was there.”
“He never asks.”
“Maybe he’s trying personal growth.”
Teresa looked horrified.
The next morning, I walked into breakfast determined to be invisible.
Dominic was already there.
“Good morning, Mr. Castellano.”
“Miss Holloway.”
He remembered.
Then Biscotti appeared carrying one of my cleaning cloths.
“You and I discussed stealing yesterday.”
Dominic lowered his newspaper.
“Your disciplinary system appears ineffective.”
“With respect, sir, he lives with criminals.”
Every fork stopped.
“I meant the document situation.”
“Of course.”
Amusement flickered in his eyes.
Over the next two weeks, little things kept happening.
I changed flowers in the library while he handled a phone call.
When I tried to leave, he said, “You don’t need to.”
“I thought you liked empty rooms.”
“Who told you that?”
“Everybody.”
“Everybody talks too much.”
“In their defense, you don’t.”
Another almost-smile.
One afternoon, Dominic stood in the kitchen staring at Biscotti.
“He ignored three commands.”
“Have you tried asking nicely?”
“I don’t negotiate with dogs.”
“That’s probably why you’re losing.”
The cook suddenly became fascinated by an onion.
Dominic folded his arms.
“You believe you can do better?”
I crouched.
“Come here, traitor.”
Biscotti ran straight into my arms.
“He responds to warmth,” I said.
“I feed him.”
“So does the automatic dispenser.”
Dominic smiled.
Actually smiled.
That was when I realized everyone in the mansion watched Dominic for signs of danger.
I had started watching him for signs of life.
His grandmother Rosa explained why.
“He hasn’t laughed like that in nine years.”
“What happened?”
“His sister.”
Isabella Castellano had been twenty-four when she died in violence connected to Dominic’s world. Dominic reached the hospital too late.
Afterward, he stopped celebrating birthdays, joining family dinners, and laughing.
“He believes loving someone gives fate something to take from him,” Rosa said.
“And nobody changed his mind?”
“He never let anybody close enough to try.”
“I’m not fixing him.”
“Good. People aren’t broken furniture, Marin.”
That night, I found Dominic alone in the library beside a photograph of a younger Dominic and Isabella holding two ridiculous yellow neckties.
I didn’t ask questions.
At the door, I looked back.
“Good night, Dominic.”
First-name territory.
Dangerous.
“Good night, Marin.”
I walked away.
I never saw Victoria standing at the other end of the hallway.
But she saw us.
And that night, she decided I had become a problem.