Chapter 4 - The Price of Protection
Following the grand gala at the Plaza, Sadi’s life changed overnight.
She no longer slept in the small, windowless maid's quarters on the ground floor of the estate. Victor had moved her into the east wing suite—a luxurious set of rooms featuring a king-sized bed, plush rugs, and floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking Lake Washington.
Her bleach bucket was replaced by fine leather journals; her faded uniforms replaced by soft cashmere sweaters and tailored trousers.
Yet, despite the luxury, Sadi felt like a caged songbird.
She spent her mornings visiting Sam at St. Jude’s, accompanied by two armed guards named Frank and Leo. Sam’s condition was improving rapidly thanks to the new treatment—his color was returning, and his laughter filled the private room—but Sadi knew the debt she owed Victor was mounting into figures she could never repay with money.
One rainy Thursday evening, Sadi walked down the grand mahogany staircase toward Victor’s private study.
She held a tray with a fresh pot of black coffee and a plate of dark chocolate biscotti. Though Victor had repeatedly ordered the household staff to serve her, Sadi couldn't completely shed eight months of habit. She needed to feel useful.
She knocked gently on the heavy oak door.
“Enter,” Victor’s voice called out.
She pushed the door open. The study was dimly lit by a crackling fireplace and a brass desk lamp. Victor sat behind his broad desk, his jacket off, his tie loosened, reviewing a stack of financial ledgers. He looked exhausted, the dark circles under his eyes hinting at the quiet war he was waging across the city to keep Mick O’Shea and Moretti squeezed.
When he saw Sadi holding the tray, he frowned slightly, though his eyes softened.
“I told Mrs. Gable that you aren't supposed to carry trays, Sadi,” Victor said, leaning back in his leather chair.
“I wanted to bring it,” Sadi replied softly, walking over and setting the tray on the edge of his desk. “You haven't eaten since breakfast.”
Victor watched her as she poured black coffee into a china cup. Her hands were healing well; the deep cracks had closed, leaving soft, smooth skin.
“How is Sam?” Victor asked, taking the cup from her.
“He smiled today,” Sadi said, a genuine, radiant warmth filling her face. “He asked if he could meet you. He calls you 'the dark knight' because of the dark cars.”
A rare, faint smile touched Victor’s lips. “A dark knight. He’s overly optimistic.”
Sadi stepped closer to the desk, her fingers resting lightly on the polished wood. “Victor... why did you really do it? You paid over two hundred thousand dollars for his treatment. You took on Mick O’Shea. You faced Moretti in front of the entire city. Nobody does that for a maid.”
Victor set his coffee cup down. He stood up slowly, stepping around the desk until he was standing directly in front of her. The heat from the fireplace cast long, flickering shadows across his sharp features.
“Ten years ago,” Victor said softly, his voice dropping into a solemn register, “my younger sister Clara got sick. Blood illness, just like Sam.”
Sadi gasped quietly. She had never heard anyone in the house speak of Victor having family.
“My father was running the family business back then,” Victor continued, his eyes fixed on the fire. “He was brutal, paranoid, and miserly. He believed spending money on 'weakness' was a waste of assets. He delayed Clara’s treatment for six months because he was laundering money through European banks and didn't want to raise red flags with federal auditors.”
Victor stopped, his jaw tightening so hard a muscle twitched near his temple.
“She died when she was twelve,” Victor whispered. “On a cold Tuesday night in a public ward, while my father was celebrating a shipment in Macao. The day I took over this family, I swore on her grave that no child in this city would die because someone was too greedy or too cruel to save them.”
Sadi felt a wave of intense, ache-filled empathy wash over her. Without thinking, she reached out and placed her soft hand against his arm, her fingers resting on the heavy fabric of his waistcoat.
“I’m so sorry, Victor,” she said, her voice trembling.
Victor looked down at her hand on his arm, then up into her dark, expressive eyes. The space between them seemed to shrink, heavy with unspoken tension and a deep, electric understanding.
“You don't owe me anything, Sadi,” Victor murmured, leaning in slightly, his breath warm against her forehead. “Not work. Not money. Nothing.”
Before Sadi could respond, the phone on his desk rang violently, breaking the spell.
Victor stepped back, clearing his throat, and picked up the receiver. “Costello.”
May you like
Matteo’s voice came through the speaker, crisp and urgent. “Boss, we have a problem. Mick O’Shea just resurfaced. He didn't flee the city—he met with Luca Moretti’s younger brother, Anthony, at the docks an hour ago. They’re planning an assault on our distribution center in Tacoma tonight.”
Victor’s face hardened instantly back into stone. “Assemble the team. I’ll be down in five minutes.”
