TAINTED

Chapter Three

The mansion was unlike anything Deynn had ever stepped foot in. The walls dripped with wealth—gold-framed portraits of the Santoros, chandeliers that scattered light like shards of diamond, marble floors polished so perfectly she could see her own reflection. But beneath the glamour lurked something darker. Every corner of the estate smelled faintly of gun oil and cigar smoke, the air heavy with secrets.

The other maids moved quickly, silently, as if afraid of being seen. Deynn mirrored them, carrying silver trays, folding linens, scrubbing away at surfaces that already gleamed. Every movement was calculated—she had trained for this. Blend in. Don’t draw attention. Don’t give Atlas Santoro a reason to question her again.

But it didn’t matter.

She felt him.

Even without looking, she knew when he entered the room. The shift in the air was unmistakable—the hush of conversation, the stiffened spines of the guards, the way laughter died as though cut at the throat. Atlas Santoro was a storm that commanded silence.

It happened again that morning. Deynn was pouring fresh coffee in the dining hall, the porcelain cup trembling just slightly in her hand. She hadn’t realized it until his voice sliced through the stillness.

“You’ll spill again if you’re not careful.”

The cup almost slipped. Her eyes darted up—and there he was, seated at the head of the table, his black shirt unbuttoned just enough to reveal a glint of skin, his posture relaxed but his eyes sharper than knives.

Deynn lowered her gaze immediately, forcing a small smile. “It won’t happen again, sir.”

He said nothing. But she felt his gaze trace her as she leaned forward to place the cup down. Not lustful—not yet. It was something worse. Assessing. Weighing. Measuring if she was a threat… or prey.

When she turned to leave, she caught the faintest curve of his mouth. Amusement.

Later, as she scrubbed the marble floors in the hall, voices echoed from the study beyond the door—deep, harsh, speaking in Italian. She stilled, her hand tightening on the rag. Words about shipments. Territories. Names of men she recognized from Rossi files. This was the intel she needed.

Her heart pounded, but she leaned closer, ear nearly pressed against the wood.

And then—

The door opened.

She fell forward slightly, catching herself just in time. Her blood ran cold as her eyes rose—straight into Atlas’s.

He stood in the doorway, a glass of whiskey in hand, his expression unreadable. His men continued speaking behind him, unaware.

“Eavesdropping, Deynn?” His voice was soft, mocking, but there was steel underneath.

Her lips parted. “N-no, sir. I was just cleaning.”

A pause stretched between them. Then, slowly, Atlas stepped forward, closing the door behind him. The hallway was silent except for the sound of her breathing—and his steps as he approached.

He crouched down beside her, the scent of smoke and leather wrapping around her like a noose. His hand gripped her chin, tilting her face up until she had no choice but to look into those black eyes.

“You’re clever,” he murmured, studying her face as if peeling back every lie. “Too clever for a maid.”

Deynn’s pulse thundered. If she broke now, she was dead.

So she let out a shaky laugh, forcing a playful smirk to her lips. “Or maybe I’m just clumsy. You think too highly of me, sir.”

Atlas’s thumb brushed along her jaw, deceptively gentle, though his eyes remained cold. Then, just as suddenly, he released her, rising to his full height.

“You’re walking on a blade’s edge, little maid,” he said, his tone low, lethal. “Pray you don’t fall.”

And with that, he was gone, his presence leaving the air heavy and suffocating in his wake.

Deynn sat frozen on the floor, her breath coming fast.

Atlas Santoro was dangerous. Too dangerous.

And for the first time since she swore vengeance, she wondered if she had stepped into a game she couldn’t win.