BENEATH THE BILLIONAIRE'S CRUELTY

CHAPTER TWO

Maria fell silent, but her eyes were sympathetic when they landed on Amara. Everyone in the household knew how Sienna treated Dante’s "debt payment," as she liked to call Amara. The insults, the spills that Amara had to clean up on purpose, the way Sienna would summon her just to dismiss her—like a cat playing with a mouse, asserting her dominance.

Amara slid the pastries into the oven and moved on to the fresh fruit. Her hands worked quickly, slicing strawberries, arranging melon, prepping the fancy breakfast that Dante would barely touch. He usually just drank his coffee, black and bitter, before disappearing into his study or heading out to his office downtown. But she still set out the whole spread every morning, because that was her job. And, deep down, in a little corner of her heart, she hoped that maybe one day he’d actually sit down and eat something she made. That he might taste the care she poured into each dish, even if he’d never know it was her hands that prepared it.

"I just don’t get rich people," Maria said, watching Amara work. "Look at all this food, and he picks at it like a bird. Meanwhile, people are starving in the city."

"He donates to charities," Lucia chimed in, always the peacemaker. "I've seen the receipts. Millions every year."

"Blood money," Maria muttered, low enough for it to be brushed off.

But it was true. Everyone knew Dante Moretti’s empire wasn’t built just on clean business. There were whispers about ties to the underworld, shady deals made in the dark, about people. Anyone who opposed Dante vanished - Amara had caught the staff whispering when they believed she was out of earshot.

The Moretti family had long operated where legal commerce met the underworld. Dante's father had led a double life - corporate chief during daylight, a darker power after dusk. When the old man died five years earlier, Dante took it all - the firms, the contacts, the name. He pushed further, stretching his network until it touched every district of Aurelia City and points far past it.

People dreaded him. They bowed to him - no hand had but reached him.

Amara counted for nothing. She rated below zero - her presence balanced a ledger. She carried trays. She drifted along the rim of his days.

The kitchen timer rang. Amara lifted the tray from the oven - each pastry showed an even golden layer, layers separated, the warm smell of butter and vanilla drifted upward. She set them on a white porcelain dish and shook a light veil of powdered sugar across the rows.

"Beautiful", Lucia spoke with open admiration.

"You have a gift, mija"

"It's just baking", Amara gave a quiet protest, but a small pulse of pride slipped through. This task, at least, she handled with skill.

At 6:45 AM, the long table in the formal dining room held neat rows of pastries, a bowl of chilled fruit, a dish of yoghurt and an omelette kept hot beneath a silver cover. Toast waited in a rack, jam sat beside it, and a glass carafe held juice pressed from fresh oranges. Coffee dripped into the pot - its scent drifted through the adjoining doorway.

Amara stepped back into the kitchen - the rule was strict - when Dante ate, she vanished. She cooked, she arranged, she withdrew.

Exactly at seven, she heard the hard soles of his shoes strike the marble. Her heart lurched once - she scolded it for the weakness.

Dante Moretti entered the dining room as though the building and everything beyond it already belonged to him. From the kitchen, Amara could still form the picture - a tall frame wrapped in a charcoal suit, dark hair still holding traces of shower water, eyes set in a mask that revealed nothing.

A chair slid back, newsprint crackled, then stillness.

After a short pause, his voice sounded level and cold: "Marcus"

"Sir, the head of security had to be within earshot.

"The quarterly reports from the Singapore office—are they ready?"

"On your desk, sir. Arrived this morning"

"Good. I want a full analysis by noon. And contact Castellano. Tell him I'll meet him on Thursday, not Wednesday. Something's come up"

"Understood, sir"

A long quiet followed - Amara pictured Dante lifting his cup, eyes drifting over the plates with no wish to eat. Months of mornings had taught her the routine - almost no breakfast, only coffee and at times one slice of toast. The large breakfasts she cooked served as decoration, ready for visitors.

Then a new noise reached her - a metal fork tapping china.

"These pastries", Dante spoke - the words drifted into the kitchen. "They're different from yesterday"

Amara stopped - her hand hung above the soapy plate.

"I believe the kitchen staff varies the menu, sir", Marcus answered.

"Hmm"

Nothing more came - only a flat sound. Her pulse sped - Dante had registered the meal. He had truly registered it. She heard another bite - the newspaper crinkled when he turned a page.

"Tell the kitchen to make these again," he said at last. "They're acceptable"

Acceptable - the word was small, the praise mild, but heat spread through Amara's chest.

"Of course, sir", Marcus added - a trace of amusement reached her ear.

No one spoke again until the meal ended - after fifteen minutes, Dante stood, walked to the door, opened it and left. The engine of one of his cars hummed, then faded.

Maria peered into the kitchen, grinning. "Did you hear that? 'Acceptable.' From Dante Moretti, that's practically a marriage proposal"

"Don't be ridiculous", Amara spoke, but a smile still escaped.

"He ate three of them", Maria went on. "Three! I was watching from the hallway. The man who usually drinks coffee and leaves actually sat there and ate your pastries. "They're not my pastries", Amara objected. "They're the household's pastries"

"Sure", Maria added with a wink. "Keep telling yourself that"

Lucia ushered Maria out the door, then sent Amara a glance that said she understood. "It's good to take pride in your work, mija. Even if no one acknowledges it"

One person had offered recognition, brief and cool - that tiny nod of approval sustained Amara while she wiped the dining room, scoured the kitchen plus started lunch. The mansion demanded work every day - forty rooms needed dusting, sweeping and polishing, plus although the house employed many servants, Amara still received extra tasks. She accepted the load - the chores filled the hours and stopped her thoughts from returning to her circumstances.

"They're not my pastries", Amara objected. "They're the household's pastries"

"Sure", Maria added with a wink. "Keep telling yourself that"

Lucia ushered Maria out the door, then sent Amara a glance that said she understood. "It's good to take pride in your work, mija. Even if no one acknowledges it"

One person had offered recognition, brief and cool - that tiny nod of approval sustained Amara while she wiped the dining room, scoured the kitchen plus started lunch. The mansion demanded work every day - forty rooms needed dusting, sweeping and polishing, plus although the house employed many servants, Amara still received extra tasks. She accepted the load - the chores filled the hours and stopped her thoughts from returning to her circumstances.