“The Italian Mafia.”
“Ah.”
I can’t believe that this place, this house I’m in, is ground zero for the goddamn New York mob.
“When he steps down,” Oscar continues, “or God forbid, something were to happen to him…” He trails off. “There must be a successor. Traditionally, it would be a son. But matters are so dire that even a woman would be considered.”
“How open-minded of them,” I reply, a small curve to my lips.
Oscar matches it with one of his own. “Believe me, I’ve seen more than my share of capable matriarchs in my day. But as for the rest of the Camorra, let’s just say their views are stuck in another century. Regardless, Mr. Moretti has no children. The king is without an heir. It’s troubling.”
“What would happen if he were to die without an heir?”
“Chaos,” he replies. “War.”
“Would I be free?”
Oscar shakes his head. “Not even close. You, at the moment, are the property of Mr. Moretti. If he were to pass, the rest of the families in the city would begin fighting over his possessions. More likely than not, you’d be claimed by some upstart gangster, looking for a trophy.”
I shiver at the thought, even though being a possession at all still does not sit well with me.
“Sounds so Bronze Age.”
“Some things never change. Civilization might appear civilized from certain angles, but beneath the veneer, there will always be men like Mr. Moretti.”
“So the rest of the family wants him to have a kid?”
“They would use the term ‘securing the family line,’ but yes.”
I think about Gabriel—cold, controlled, untouchable. I try to imagine him with a wife, a child, and a life that isn’tthis.
But I can’t.
“What’s he like?” I ask. “Really?”
Oscar considers the question. Then he looks at me. “He is just. He is ruthless. He protects those under his care with absolute loyalty. And he doesn’t do anything without reason, Miss Thea. If he brought you here, it’s because he believes you belong.”
“But I don’t belong here,” I whisper.
“Perhaps. Or perhaps you simply don’t know it yet.”
I spend the rest of the morning working, cataloguing exits.
As far as I can tell, there are four on the ground floor—front door, kitchen door, back patio door, and the servants’ exit near the laundry room.
Windows on the second floor could work, but it’s a fifteen-or-so-foot drop down. If I didn’t have a very soft place to land, I’d easily break an ankle. The third and fourth floors are obviously a no-go. Not to mention that both are off-limits.
By the time Oscar dismisses me for lunch, my feet are aching and my brain is buzzing.
I eat in the servants’ room next to the kitchen with the rest of the staff. There’s about a dozen of them, many of them pretending like I don’t exist.
I don’t catch all the names, but there’s a cook named Marta, and a groundskeeper named Tom, who nods at me once before going back to his soup.
Thankfully, the afternoon goes by quickly, and before I know it, the day’s over. Oscar tells me to relax until dinner, sending me off to do whatever I want within reason.
I go to my room, wasting no time getting out of my silly uniform and back into something comfortable. The closet is calling out to me to explore further, to really peruse what’s in there. As far as I can tell, aside from Oscar and me, none of the other staff lives in the house. There’s a servant’s quarters in a separate building, but Oscar didn’t show me around there.
I bet none of them have a walk-in closet filled with a collection of shoes worth more than what I make in a year.