The Man Everyone Feared
970 Words
For a moment, Francesca forgot how to breathe.
The man standing before her was taller than she had expected.
Dark hair.
Sharp features.
A perfectly tailored black suit.
Everything about him radiated control.
Power.
The kind of power that didn't need to announce itself because everyone already knew it was there.
The hallway had gone silent.
Even the servants seemed careful not to make a sound.
Francesca immediately understood why.
This was Alessandro De Luca.
The owner of the mansion.
The billionaire everyone seemed afraid of.
And judging by the expression on his face, he wasn't particularly happy to see her.
His dark eyes settled on her.
Studying.
Assessing.
For one strange second, something flickered across his face.
A look she couldn't quite identify.
Then it disappeared.
Gone so quickly she wondered if she'd imagined it.
"Mrs. Moretti."
His voice was calm.
Cold.
Professional.
Francesca straightened.
"Mr. De Luca."
The corner of his jaw tightened slightly.
As if he appreciated formality.
Without another word, he turned toward the double doors.
"Come."
That was it.
No greeting.
No welcome.
Just a command.
Francesca fought the urge to roll her eyes.
Mrs. Whitmore gave her an encouraging nod before the doors opened.
Francesca followed Alessandro inside.
The office was enormous.
Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked the gardens.
Bookshelves lined the walls.
A massive desk sat near the center of the room.
Everything was elegant.
Everything was expensive.
Everything felt intimidating.
Alessandro walked behind the desk and sat down.
He didn't offer her a seat immediately.
Francesca noticed.
So did he.
After a few seconds, he gestured toward the chair opposite him.
"Sit."
Francesca obeyed.
The interview began.
Alessandro opened a file.
Her file.
He studied it in silence.
The ticking of a clock echoed through the room.
Then—
"You've never managed a professional kitchen."
Francesca blinked.
Straight to the criticism.
Wonderful.
"No."
"You've never worked in a luxury estate."
"No."
"You've never supervised a staff of this size."
"No."
He looked up.
One eyebrow raised.
Almost challenging her.
Francesca resisted the urge to squirm.
"Then explain why I should hire you."
She stared at him.
For a second, irritation flared.
She had spent years working herself to exhaustion.
Years balancing multiple jobs.
Years raising a child alone.
And somehow this man made it sound like none of that mattered.
"I know how to cook."
His expression didn't change.
"A great many people know how to cook."
Francesca folded her arms.
"I know how to lead."
Something flickered in his eyes.
Interest.
Perhaps surprise.
"Do you?"
"Yes."
"Based on what experience?"
The irritation grew.
"Based on surviving."
The room became very still.
Alessandro's gaze sharpened.
Francesca immediately regretted saying it.
She wasn't here to discuss her life.
She was here for a job.
But the words had already escaped.
"I've worked multiple jobs," she continued quietly.
"I've solved problems when there was nobody else to solve them."
His expression remained unreadable.
"I've taken responsibility when things went wrong."
Silence.
Then:
"And if a member of your staff refuses to follow instructions?"
Francesca shrugged.
"I'll handle it."
"How?"
"Depends."
"On?"
"The staff member."
The slightest hint of amusement touched his face.
Barely noticeable.
But it was there.
Then it vanished.
Francesca wondered if anyone else had ever seen him smile.
Probably not.
The interview continued.
Question after question.
Challenge after challenge.
By the end of it, Francesca was exhausted.
And annoyed.
Very annoyed.
Because Alessandro seemed determined to test her patience.
Finally, he closed the file.
The sound echoed through the room.
"That will be all."
Francesca blinked.
That was it?
No indication of how she had done.
No reassurance.
Nothing.
She stood.
"So I'll hear from you?"
Alessandro nodded once.
"If necessary."
If necessary?
The man was impossible.
Francesca forced a polite smile.
"Thank you for your time."
She turned toward the door.
Then stopped.
A strange sensation washed over her.
Sudden.
Unexpected.
Like a distant memory brushing against her thoughts.
Rain.
Laughter.
A child's voice.
The image vanished before she could grasp it.
Her heart skipped.
Confused, she glanced back.
Alessandro was watching her.
His expression had changed.
Only slightly.
But enough.
Enough for her to notice.
For a split second, he looked unsettled.
As if something had disturbed him too.
Then the cold mask returned.
The moment disappeared.
Francesca quickly left the office.
The door closed behind her.
Outside, she released a long breath.
"Well," she muttered.
"That was terrible."
---
Twenty minutes later, Francesca and Charlotte were walking back toward the front gates.
Charlotte skipped happily beside her.
"Did you get the job?"
Francesca laughed.
"No."
"How do you know?"
"Trust me."
Charlotte frowned.
"Maybe he liked you."
Francesca snorted.
"Definitely not."
Before Charlotte could respond, hurried footsteps echoed behind them.
"Mrs. Moretti!"
Francesca turned.
Mrs. Whitmore was approaching.
For the first time since meeting her, the older woman looked slightly out of breath.
Francesca's stomach tightened.
Had she forgotten something?
Mrs. Whitmore stopped in front of her.
"The master has reached a decision."
Francesca prepared herself for rejection.
Instead, the housekeeper smiled.
A genuine smile.
"The position of Head Cook is yours, should you choose to accept it."
Silence.
Francesca stared.
Surely she had heard wrong.
"What?"
"You've been hired."
Charlotte squealed.
"Mommy got the job!"
The little girl practically bounced with excitement.
Francesca remained frozen.
Confused.
Shocked.
Certain there had been some kind of mistake.
Because after that interview, there was no way Alessandro De Luca should have hired her.
No way at all.
Yet somewhere on the second floor of the mansion, standing beside a window overlooking the driveway, Alessandro watched her from a distance.
His expression was unreadable.
His decision made no sense.
Not even to him.
But for reasons he couldn't explain...
The moment Francesca Moretti walked away, the mansion had suddenly felt a little emptier.
- Writer
