Married to the Man I Was Paid to Destroy

Chapter 6: Moving In

Elena set her smallest suitcase down on the black marble floor of the foyer.

The oak doors closed behind her, cutting off the wind. Joseph stood by the threshold, hands clasped, and gestured toward a wide staircase of white stone.

"Giana will show you to your quarters, Mrs. Marchetti."

An older woman in a black dress stepped out of the shadow of the stairs, gray hair pulled into a tight knot.

"Follow me, please," she said, her accent northern Italian.

Elena reached for her suitcase, but Joseph already had the handle. "I'll bring your bags to the east wing, ma'am."

She let her hand drop and slid it into her coat pocket instead, her thumb finding the cold edge of the new ring, tracing its weight without quite touching skin. She followed Giana up the stairs.

The house was silent, marble and dark wood stretching in every direction. At the first landing, a small dome camera blinked red in the corner of the ceiling.

"Family rooms are in the west wing," Giana said, her slippers soundless on the runner. "Mr. Marchetti's study is in the central core. It's closed off after nine."

"And the east wing?" Elena kept her voice level.

"Yours. Prepared to Mr. Marchetti's instructions."

They passed through a stone archway into dimmer light, narrow windows looking out over dark hemlock trees. The window locks were brass, heavy, the kind that needed a key from the inside.

At the end of the hall, Giana unlocked a set of pale oak doors. The suite inside was modern — gray wool, steel, a fire already burning in the hearth.

"Your bags are in the dressing room." Giana held out a silver key. "This is the only copy on the house ring. Joseph keeps the master, for emergencies."

Elena took it. The metal was cold and sharp against her palm. "Thank you."

"Dinner is at eight, in the formal dining room. Mr. Marchetti expects you there. He doesn't tolerate lateness."

"I know how to keep a schedule," Elena said.

Giana gave a short nod and left, closing the door behind her.

Elena waited until the footsteps faded, then locked the deadbolt. She pulled the fob from her pocket, walked to the window, and looked down. Rain had started again, blurring the perimeter lights. A guard in a black jacket walked the gravel path below, his flashlight sweeping the grass. He crossed the same stretch every hour, like clockwork, and another guard replaced him at the turn.

She pulled the drapes shut, hung her coat, and sat at the writing desk. On a legal pad she sketched the hallway from memory — the camera, the library doors, the central core, the guard's rhythm noted in the margin.

This was her defense now. In a courtroom she'd used statutes. Here, all she had was pacing and angles and time.

She came down to dinner just before eight, changed into a dark blue dress, her hair back in its usual low tail. The dining room was enormous for two people — a long mahogany table, a single candelabra throwing shadows up the paneled walls.

Alessio sat at the head of it in a charcoal sweater, a glass of wine untouched in front of him, his eyes on the candle flame. He didn't stand when she came in. He gestured to the chair beside him.

"Sit, Elena."

She stood by the chair instead. "The table's a bit large for two people, Mr. Marchetti."

"It belongs to the house." His eyes moved from her collar down to her throat, then back up. "And you'll call me Alessio. We have an audience even alone. Giana and Joseph notice everything."

She sat. The leather was heavy, smelled faintly of old wax.

"If this is going to last three years, we need boundaries," she said.

A waiter set down two plates and left without a word.

"The boundaries are simple," Alessio said. "You have the east wing. Your own schedule. I won't expect you at breakfast."

"And the central core? The library, your offices?"

He paused, fork halfway to his plate, and looked at her for a beat too long.

"That's where the accounts live," he said. "Server's local, watched around the clock. You don't go in there after nine."

"I'm supposed to be your wife, not your prisoner. If Vittorio visits, or the Cattaneos, they'll expect me to know this house."

He set the fork down and leaned back, his thumb finding the ring on his little finger, turning it once, slow.

"Vittorio doesn't come here without an invitation. The Cattaneos have no reason to see my study. You'll be the wife who prefers her own quarters. Distant. Intellectual. That's what they'll expect."

"And if I need a book?"

"Ask Giana."

Elena cut into her food and tasted none of it. Her eyes stayed on the ring, turning, turning.

"I still have work," she said. "Vance processed my resignation, but I'll keep up my research. I'll need a secure line."

"Your suite has its own. Separate from the house network. Nobody watches it."

"Unmonitored."

"It just doesn't connect to my business," he said. "Read whatever you want on it. Try to reach my logs from it, and the line dies. That firewall doesn't bend."

She sat back, hands returning to her lap. He'd built his own walls before she'd even measured his.

"Understood," she said.

They ate the rest in silence, nothing but silver against porcelain.

Alessio wiped his mouth and set the napkin down.

"There's an event Thursday. The Harbor Association gala. You'll come with me."

Her fingers tightened in her lap. "The guest list?"

"Cleared through Vance by tomorrow. Nothing active on it."

"And Vittorio?"

"He chairs the association. He'll be there." Alessio's eyes held hers. "Stand beside me. Smile. Answer him the way you did in the courtyard. He respects that. He hates hesitation."

"I don't hesitate."

He watched her for a long moment, then stood, his shadow falling across the table.

"We leave at seven. Joseph has your dress — it'll be sent up tomorrow."

"I choose my own clothes," Elena said to his back.

He stopped at the door but didn't turn around.

"It's forest green," he said. "Wear it."

He was gone before she could ask why that color, of all the ones in the world.

She locked the door behind him at half past nine and let the fire burn down to embers before she moved again.

She sat at the desk and looked at her sketch of the house. The central core. The server.

She took the fob from her pocket and pressed the button once. Nothing. No signal to send yet — just a habit, checking that the tool still worked.

There was still a long road ahead of her, longer than she wanted to count. She was inside now. The walls were just thicker than she'd planned for.

She crossed to the window and looked out at the rain. Below, a flashlight swept the gravel one more time, slow and even, marking the hour.