Chapter 3
3
Lorenzo
My mother finds me at lunch in the staff dining quarters, which is nicer than any restaurant I’ve ever eaten in. Everything smells like rosemary and butter.
I’m in the corner by myself since I’m not sure what the protocol is on taking the food, and I promised Mom I’d behave for now.
She places a plate in front of me. “Eat p>
I poke the roasted chicken. “We can’t afford this p>
“It’s free, Enzo.” She joins me with a plate of her own. “They feed staff well p>
“Because they can p>
“Because they should p>
I don’t argue.
But in my heart, I realize for the first time that some people are just fucking blessed. While Mom and I toil with skin and blood for every little thing we have, others are born into wealth and privilege.
Mid-bite, Mom glances around and lowers her voice. “Have you seen her p>
On instinct, my stomach tightens. “Who p>
“Victoria Danforth p>
Oh hell no.
“She’s your age,” my normally oblivious mother continues, eyes shining with some maternal fantasy that she immediately crushes. “I hear she’s pretty, but remember to stay away p>
“Obviously p>
“But,” she continues, ignoring my attitude, “there might be other kids around this place from the staff. Maybe you could make a friend p>
“No.” I cut off her delusions. “Absolutely not p>
“You haven’t even met any of them p>
We don’t even know they exist, I want to say.
I stab the chicken with a fork. “I don’t need to p>
Mom sighs dramatically. “Enzo, you’re eighteen, not eighty. Don’t spend the summer moping. Make a friend p>
“Mother,” I enunciate, voice flat, “this is a mansion that could buy a small nation p>
“So p>
“So we both know what trouble the type of friends I like to make tends to stir up.” I shovel the rest of the plate into my mouth at top speed. “Trash begets trash p>
My mother gives me that look, the pitying one. “You need to stop believing that p>
“I don’t believe it.” I wipe my mouth and drop my fork. “I know it p>
After lunch, I help my mother carry boxes into the kitchen. It’s not the highlight of my day, that’s for sure. It smells of garlic and sweat. Not a good combo if you ask me.
The cooks move with military efficiency—knives flashing, pans sizzling, orders shouted.
My mother looks happy. Really happy. It settles something in me, and I feel a tiny, tiny bit less pissed off to be woken at an ungodly hour and relocated here.
Then Chef Arthur storms past us.
“We have a problem with the ice delivery,” he bellows. “Someone fetch more from the auxiliary freezer. You—” He pauses to snap at me. “Boy p>
I freeze.
Oh, great.
Being an errand boy wasn’t on my summer bingo card, but here we are.
“Yes, you.” He points at me with a knife, which feels like an HR violation. “Freezer. Now. And hurry. The Danforths have been waiting for their lunch for three minutes p>
“Wow. Three whole minutes. How will they ever survive?” I want to say, but Mom’s face pleads with me to behave.
So I nod and head toward the hallway.
Meryl—the fifty-something lead housekeeper—gives me half-assed directions and rushes away with a warning to stay out of sight when not working. Next, Elise, the mid-thirties-ish sous chef, repeats the same directions more palatably before continuing to chop vegetables with an intensity wasted on a casual summer lunch.
Then, I’m off, thinking about what I heard while eating.
Apparently, the Danforths are a nouveau riche steel family, desperate to be accepted by the upper echelon. Before they managed to snag this place after the old owner croaked, they lived in a gaudy mansion made entirely of gold, down to the toilets.
Their sense of style—or lack thereof— caused such a spectacle that every interior designer in the region refused to work with them.
My footsteps echo along the corridor. The auxiliary freezer is somewhere near the north wing of the mansion, past the wine cellar and too many doors. When I finally push into the cold, the air hits me hard, icy fingers crawling down my neck.
I grab two bags of ice, sling them over my shoulder, and turn—
And nearly slam into someone.
Victoria.
Because of course.
She stands in the doorway wearing a thin cardigan over that silk dress, cheeks flushed from the cold. Her hair is damp, like she just got out of the pool.
“Well.” She greets me with a nonchalant grin. “If it isn’t the mysterious staff boy p>
I grit my teeth, adjusting my grip on the ice so the cold touches less of my back. “I’m busy p>
“Doing what? Ice delivery?” Her eyes sparkle with amusement. “Very impressive p>
“Move p>
She does not move.
She steps closer.
The cold air shifts between us.
She stops the door with her back just centimeters before it closes on us. “You didn’t tell me your name earlier p>
“Still not going to p>
She studies me with interest. Genuine interest. Like she’s flipping through a book she can’t put down.
“Most people tell me their names before I even have to ask p>
Truly, it’s a wonder how no one has read this bored rich girl like the open book that she is. Prim and proper, my ass.
I finally set down the ice bags, resigned to this conversation, lest I lay hands on this heiress and physically move her myself. “It must be tiring avoiding all the bent spines sprawled around your feet p>
It occurs to me that this is precisely the behavior my mother begged me not to engage in. Giving attitude to the bosses’ precious daughter. Yet my instinct tells me that Victoria Danforth isn’t a narc. Or rather, she enjoys toying with me, just like I don’t exactly hate snarking back at her.
She bites back a smile. “You’re really committed to this whole ‘I don’t care’ act, aren’t you p>
“It’s not an act p>
“Hmm.” She tilts her head. “Feels like one p>
I hike the bags back over my shoulder and move past her, forcing her to step aside with the frosted edge of an icy cold bag. She inhales sharply, surprised—not by my rudeness, but by the fact that I didn’t pause, didn’t give her the reverence she’s used to.
“Are you always like this?” she calls as I walk away.
“Only with people who don’t listen,” I toss over my shoulder.
Her laugh is so soft I barely hear it. “You’re interesting p>
“I’m not p>
“You are p>
I don’t look back.
But I feel her gaze burning between my shoulder blades like sunlight through a magnifying glass.
And I hate how aware of her I suddenly am.
Her scent—something faint like citrus and saltwater.
Her voice—smooth but edged with rebellion.
Her presence—impossible to ignore.
This is exactly why my mother warned me.
Exactly why I keep walls higher than this mansion’s ceilings.
Girls like Victoria Danforth don’t get tired.
They get what they want.
And me?
I can’t afford to be anything anyone wants.
By the time I return to the kitchen, Chef Arthur is screaming about something else, and the cooks are pretending not to hear him. My mother mouths thank you to me, and I nod, pretending the encounter with Victoria hasn’t rattled me.
It has.
More than I’d like.
Meryl returns to the kitchen in time to curl her nose at the sight of me drenched in sweat from the trek with forty pounds of ice.
She nods at a roll of paper towels, the unspoken order clear, and pivots to my mom. “You’ll be given a weekly menu from Mrs. Danforth. Breakfast at seven. Lunch at one. Dinner at eight sharp. You prep, plate, and disappear. Any deviation and I hear about it p>
Mom nods. “Understood p>
Meryl turns to Elise. “Assign the boy the pantry and prep. Nothing to do with knives, though p>
Elise smirks at me, whispering under her breath so only I can hear, “Aw. They don’t trust you with sharp objects p>
“Not unsupervised.” I grin. “I wouldn’t either p>
And I mean that. I’ve always been a little dark. The thrill I get from violence has danced beneath my skin for as long as I can remember. I’ve tried to ignore it, but apparently not hard enough. Seeing as it’s the reason Mom had to take this job.
Stabbing someone will do that.
Granted, only the families involved know, and I’m lucky enough not to be shipped off to juvie or now that I’m eighteen… jail, but Mom’s scared my luck will run out, so we moved. No forwarding address, just got up and left, and here we are.
Kind of dramatic if you ask me.
With a shake of my head, I try to pay attention to what everyone is talking about. Whatever I miss, I’m sure my mother will fill me in on, so I’m not that concerned.
After the lunch rush, I escape to the staff hallway, lean against the wall, and let out a heavy breath I’ve been holding in the pit of my stomach. The entire time in the kitchen, the staff kept going on and on about Victoria. It’s clear how much everyone here adores the girl.
I should avoid her.
No, you dumb fuck, you will avoid her.
The Danforth girl is a silky storm.
The kind that destroys everything in its path.
But as I head back toward my room, something catches my eye. A flutter of white near the corner of the corridor.
A small square of paper.
I bend down. Pick it up.
A note.
In delicate handwriting:
You still owe me your name.
— V.
My pulse does something stupid.
Dangerous.
I crumple the note immediately.
But I don’t throw it away.