Chapter 2 - Shadows in the Rose GardenThe transition from a cramped apartment in Queens to the quiet, fortified expanse of the Duca estate was jarring.
The east wing guest suite was larger than Grace’s entire apartment. Its windows looked out over rolling green lawns, manicured rose gardens, and the dense pine forests bordering the Hudson River. But everywhere Grace walked, she felt the watchful eyes of silent men in dark suits. Security cameras hummed softly in the hallways, and armed guards patrolled the perimeter with trained attack dogs.
Matteo Duca was not just a wealthy businessman. He was the head of the Duca syndicate—the most powerful Italian-American organization in New York. Grace had read the muted rumors on the news, but inside the mansion, the reality was palpable.
Yet, within three weeks, Grace turned the solemn, shadowy estate upside down.
She brought bright yellow acrylic paint into the formal sunroom, covering the marble floors with protective drop cloths. She played loud 80s pop music on a portable speaker while she and Elena painted oversized canvas murals with their hands and feet. She transformed the quiet halls into obstacle courses made of couch cushions, silk scarves, and colorful plastic cones.
“You’re getting blue paint on the mahogany,” Matteo’s deep voice echoed from the sunroom doorway one late afternoon.
Grace turned, startled, wiping a streak of sky-blue paint from her nose with her forearm. She was wearing an oversized apron over a burgundy tunic and leggings that hugged her soft, generous hips and thighs. She looked messy, radiant, and entirely unbothered by his presence.
“Mahogany can be cleaned, Mr. Duca,” Grace said, offering him a challenge with her eyes. “Elena’s imagination can’t be bought at a furniture store.”
Matteo looked past Grace to his daughter.
Elena was sitting on the drop cloth, her small hands covered in yellow and red paint, laughing as she tried to paint a sun onto a large canvas. Her cheeks had color for the first time in a year. She was eating full meals. She was speaking in complete sentences.
“Dad! Look!” Elena called out, pointing a blue finger at him. “Grace says I’m an abstract genius!”
A rare, faint relaxation softened Matteo’s jaw. “Is that so?”
“Yes,” Grace said smoothly, stepping closer to Matteo with a paintbrush in hand. “And abstract geniuses require proper funding. We need more glitter, three boxes of modeling clay, and permission to turn the library courtyard into a water-balloon arena tomorrow.”
Matteo looked down at Grace. She was inches away. He noticed the rich amber speckles in her hazel eyes, the soft curve of her lips, and the unapologetic confidence with which she occupied space. Most people stuttered or lowered their eyes in his presence. Grace looked at him as if he were simply a father who needed to buy more art supplies.
“Granted,” Matteo murmured, his gaze lingering on her mouth for a fraction of a second longer than necessary. “Leo will bring the supplies tomorrow morning.”
That night, unable to sleep, Grace walked down to the estate’s grand kitchen to make herself a cup of chamomile tea.
The kitchen was dark, illuminated only by the moonlight filtering through the French doors leading to the rose garden.
Sitting at the long marble island in the dark was Matteo. His jacket was gone, his white shirt unbuttoned at the collar, a crystal glass of scotch held loosely in his large hand.
Grace paused at the doorway. “I’m sorry. I didn't mean to intrude.”
“You’re not intruding,” Matteo said, his voice low and gravelly in the quiet room. “Come in.”
Grace walked to the counter and prepared her tea in silence. When she turned, she saw the profound exhaustion etched into the lines around his eyes.
“You work too late,” Grace said softly, sitting on a stool two seats away from him.
“In my world, sleeping early is a luxury,” Matteo replied, taking a slow sip of scotch. He turned his dark head toward her. “How is your mother doing?”
Grace’s face lit up with genuine, warmth. “The new specialist at Presbyterian says her kidney function has stabilized. She’s starting a new treatment protocol next week. I... I can never thank you enough for that, Matteo.”
It was the first time she had used his first name.
Matteo felt a low heat spread through his chest. “You owe me nothing. You gave me my daughter’s voice back.”
He reached across the space between them, his large, warm fingers gently brushing against her jawline, wiping away a tiny speck of dried blue paint near her ear that she had missed in the shower.
Grace’s pulse spiked wildly. His skin was warm, his thumb calloused and gentle against her skin. She didn't pull away. She looked into his dark eyes, seeing the lonely, protective man behind the terrifying reputation.
“Grace,” Matteo whispered, his thumb lingering on her cheekbone.
Before he could say more, the quiet was shattered by the sharp beep of Leo’s encrypted radio at Matteo’s belt.
“Boss,” Leo’s tense voice came through the speaker. “We have a situation at the Brooklyn docks. The Moretti family just moved fifty men into the North Terminal. Silvio says they want a sit-down tonight.”
The softness in Matteo’s face vanished instantly, replaced by a cold, lethal mask of iron. He pulled his hand back, standing up from the bar.
May you like
“Secure the perimeter,” Matteo commanded into the radio, his voice dropping into a dangerous register. “I’m coming down.”
He looked down at Grace, his eyes dark with unspoken intensity. “Go back to your room, Grace. Lock the doors.”
