SERVING THE DEVIL'S HOUSE

The afternoon sun poured through the tall windows of Voss Villa, gilding the grand dining hall in warm golden light. It danced across the polished marble floors and sparkled against the crystal chandeliers hanging overhead. The air was thick with the sharp scent of polish and cleaning solution. Maids moved swiftly through the vast space, dusting, scrubbing, and setting long dining tables with practiced efficiency. But no one moved fast enough for Ma’am Cornelia. “Faster!” she hissed, folding her arms across her chest. Her delicate eyebrows arched in irritation. “You all move like you’re related to snails.” Her lips curled in disgust. Ma’am Cornelia had served as head maid for thirty years. She had outlasted two Dons. In the kitchens the night before, one of the older maids had whispered, “She’s watched more staff disappear than the cemetery could ever hold.” Her voice had dropped even lower. “Her loyalty belongs to this house. If the Don ordered her to poison any of us… she wouldn’t hesitate.” The words still lingered in my mind like a warning. I kept my head down and worked harder. The first lesson every servant learned inside Voss Villa was simple—silence kept you alive. Questions earned punishment. Curiosity earned worse. I had arrived only three days ago, but even I could feel the weight of unspoken fear hanging over the mansion. Every polished hallway, every closed door, every whispered conversation seemed to hide something dangerous. The villa looked like a palace, yet it carried the coldness of a prison where even breathing too loudly felt like a mistake. I had been assigned to the west end of the hall, where rows of tables stood surrounded by heavy brownish-golden chairs. I knelt, dipped my cloth into the bucket of soapy water, and began polishing the ornate legs of the nearest table. My knees already ached against the cold marble, but the pain was familiar—something that belonged only to me. Guests were arriving tomorrow morning. The thought sent a chill down my spine. I remembered the last time the Don’s guests had come. Heavy boots clicking across these same floors. Cigarette smoke clinging to the curtains for days. Men with ink crawling over their hands and necks, their cold eyes sliding over the servants as if we were no more than furniture. One maid had dared to look up for a second too long. The slap that followed had echoed like a gunshot. I had learned quickly: keep your eyes down, your breathing quiet, and your hands moving. I wiped the same spot twice, watching the dull wood transform into a rich, gleaming surface. The scent of polished wood overpowered the soap. My palms burned, bright red from the endless friction, but I pushed through. Pain always faded. That was one truth I could count on. Ma’am Cornelia’s sharp voice cut across the hall. “Higher! Pull it straight. Do it again if you have to!” She was scolding the maids struggling with the heavy grey curtains at the towering windows. They hurried to obey, tugging and smoothing every crease until the fabric hung perfectly. I rose, brushing my damp hands on my apron, and scanned the room. Every table nearby gleamed—except one, tucked farther away, still dull beneath a thin layer of dust. I lifted my metal bucket and started toward it. That was when it happened. A blur of grey uniform rushed across my path. Before I could step aside, someone slammed into my shoulder. The impact knocked the breath from my lungs. The bucket flew from my grasp. My fingers brushed uselessly at the handle as it tumbled through the air. Clang. The metal bucket crashed into the edge of a fully set table. Crystal glasses toppled like dominoes, shattering across the marble floor in a cascade of glittering shards. A dark stain bloomed across the pristine white tablecloth. Porcelain plates spun wildly before crashing down, adding to the chaos. Heads turned. Gasps rippled through the hall. “I—I’m sorry,” I breathed, dropping to my knees. Shards bit into my skin as I grabbed for the bucket. Another maid crouched beside me, shooting me a hateful glare. Her lips pressed into a thin line while she gathered the broken pieces. I dragged the rag through the spreading soapy water, desperate to contain the mess before it reached the rest of the floor. A sharp pain tore through my knee. I sucked in a breath and looked down—a jagged piece of crystal was embedded in my skin. Blood welled around it. Gritting my teeth, I pulled it free. The sting burned up my leg, but I kept working. Footsteps approached. My mind narrowed to myself. My uneven breaths sounded louder than the surrounding noises, each one scraping against the heavy silence. My heartbeat pounded in my ears as if the entire hall could hear it. For a moment, nothing else existed but the mess at my feet and the certainty that something terrible was about to happen. Polished black heels stopped directly in front of me. I tightened my grip on the bloodstained rag, heart hammering against my ribs. Slowly, I lifted my head. Ma’am Cornelia stared down at us, her face a mask of ice. Slap. My head snapped to the side. Fire exploded across my cheek. A high-pitched ringing flooded my ear as tears blurred my vision. I forced them back, refusing to let a single drop fall. My face burned, but pain had long stopped demanding my attention. It was a language I'd learned before I could even remember my mother's face. Another crack echoed through the hall. The second maid stumbled sideways, clutching her burning cheek. “You clumsy little brats!” Ma’am Cornelia thundered. A slow, cruel smile crept across her face. “You shall spend three nights in the punishment room.” Ma'am Cornelia turned on her heel .I dropped to my knees, ignoring the tiny shards biting into my palms as I gathered the larger pieces before they could scatter farther across the polished floor. The bloodstained rag was still clenched in my fist. I folded it over the crimson streak marring the marble and scrubbed before the stain had a chance to settle.