Chapter 6 - THE SECRETS OF THE WEST WING
-6
The transition from scullery maid to personal assistant within the West Wing felt less like a promotion and more like stepping into a gilded cage designed by a master tactician.
The West Wing of the Romano estate was an entirely different world from the rest of the sprawling mansion. While the main halls were cold, echoing museums of expensive art and polished marble, the West Wing was dark, functional, and heavily fortified. It housed Victor’s private quarters, the high-security communication hub, the armory, and the massive library filled with leather-bound ledgers and historical texts on crime syndicates spanning back over a century.
Tessa’s new duties, as outlined by Victor before he left for the docks, were deceptively simple: maintain the library, organize his incoming correspondence, ensure the fireplace was stocked, and keep her mouth shut.
She stood by the towering mahogany bookshelves of the library, dusting the top shelf with a soft feather duster. Her hands no longer stung from industrial ammonia, but the phantom burn of bleach still lingered in her skin. Wearing a clean, simple black dress that Victor’s personal shopper had mysteriously delivered to her room an hour earlier, she felt like an imposter playing dress-up in a world she had no business inhabiting.
“You’re holding that duster like it’s a dagger, Tessa.”
She jumped, dropping the feather duster onto the Persian rug.
Victor stood in the doorway of the library. He had returned from the docks earlier than expected. His suit jacket was off, his shirtsleeves were rolled up, and the white bandage on his left shoulder was slightly stained with a fresh spot of crimson, indicating he had pushed himself too hard during the negotiations.
“Mr. Romano,” Tessa breathed, bending down quickly to retrieve the duster. “I... I didn't hear you come in.”
“The doors in this house are designed to keep people out, not let them know when I’ve arrived,” Victor said, walking slowly into the room. He walked with a slight limp, though he tried hard to mask it. He crossed to his massive oak desk, dropped a heavy leather briefcase onto the blotter, and sank into his leather chair with a soft, exhausted sigh.
Tessa hovered near the bookshelf, unsure of whether to leave or stay. “Do you... do you need me to call Dr. Moretti? Your shoulder is bleeding through the bandage.”
Victor paused, looking down at his left shoulder. He reached up, pressing a large hand against the damp fabric. “Moretti is a nagging old woman. A few stitches tearing open won't kill me.”
“It could get infected,” Tessa argued softly, stepping closer before she could stop herself. Her instinct as a caretaker—honed by years of looking after her sickly mother before she passed away—overrode her fear of the mafia boss. “If you don't clean it and change the dressing, it will fester.”
Victor raised his dark eyes, watching her approach with a strange, analytical curiosity. “Are you giving me medical advice now, Tessa?”
“I’m giving you common sense advice,” she replied, her voice gaining a sudden, surprising strength. “Sit down. Let me see it.”
For a terrifying second, Tessa thought she had crossed a line. She expected him to roar, to remind her of her place, to put her back in the scullery with the bleach and the ammonia.
May you like
Instead, a slow, dark smirk crossed Victor’s lips. He unbuttoned his right cuff, slipped his arm out of the sleeve, and pulled his shirt down past his left shoulder, exposing the ugly, angry crimson line of surgical thread crisscrossing his bruised skin.
“Go ahead, nurse,” Victor challenged quietly. “Show me your common sense.”
