Chapter 2 - Rules for Dangerous Men
Camille did not sleep well.
She told herself it was because the guest room mattress was too soft.
That was a lie.
The real reason sat on the nightstand beside her phone, glowing in her memory long after the screen had gone dark.
YOU SHOULD LEAVE THE MORETTI HOUSE BEFORE THE GALA.
She had received unpleasant messages before. Her work put her close to public figures, wealthy families, political campaigns, and executives who believed good manners were a form of crisis management. Anonymous critics came with the territory.
But this message felt different.
It had arrived after midnight.
It knew where she was.
And it knew about the gala.
Camille considered telling Lucian.
Then she imagined his response: security doubled, freedom reduced, her schedule rewritten without consultation.
She decided to wait until morning.
At eight fifty-three, she entered the breakfast room and found Lucian already seated at the table, reading three newspapers and two tablets at once.
Nico sat across from him eating strawberries directly from a silver bowl.
Maria placed coffee in front of Camille.
“You look tired,” she said.
“Thank you, Maria. Exactly the confidence boost I needed.”
Maria patted her shoulder. “You still look beautiful.”
“Recovery accepted.”
Nico pointed his fork toward Lucian.
“He has been awake since four.”
Lucian did not look up. “Stop monitoring my sleep.”
“You monitor everyone else’s.”
“I am not monitoring them. I am aware.”
Camille sat down.
“Good. Today’s first lesson: awareness without menace.”
Lucian lowered one newspaper.
“Is menace measurable?”
“In your case, yes.”
Nico grinned. “Do we need equipment?”
“A normal room will do.”
Camille pulled out her notebook.
Lucian watched her.
“You received a message last night.”
Her pen stopped.
Nico’s grin disappeared.
Camille looked up slowly.
“I’m sorry?”
Lucian slid his phone across the table.
On the screen was a photograph of Camille entering the estate six days earlier. The angle suggested it had been taken from outside the gates.
Beneath it were the words:
YOUR CONSULTANT WILL BECOME A LIABILITY.
Camille felt the bottom drop out of her stomach.
Lucian’s voice remained level.
“Now show me yours.”
She stared at him.
“How did you know?”
“Your phone records are private. I didn’t access them.”
“That did not answer my question.”
“You came in looking tired. You checked the hallway before entering. You put your phone face down instead of beside your notebook. And when Maria mentioned your sleep, your right hand covered the phone.”
Nico swallowed.
“That is both impressive and deeply unsettling.”
Camille exhaled and unlocked her screen.
Lucian read the message.
His face changed so little most people would have missed it.
Camille did not.
His eyes became colder.
“Marco.”
The security chief appeared at the doorway almost instantly.
“Already working on it,” Marco said.
Lucian nodded.
Camille held up one finger.
“No.”
Lucian looked at her. “No?”
“You are not turning this into one of your command performances.”
“You were threatened in my home.”
“I was warned.”
“That distinction is irrelevant.”
“It is not irrelevant if you plan to lock me in a guest room.”
“I was not planning to lock you anywhere.”
“You were thinking about it.”
Nico looked between them. “For the record, he absolutely was.”
Lucian ignored him.
“You are leaving the estate until we identify the source.”
Camille leaned back.
“Interesting.”
“It is not a debate.”
“That is what makes it interesting.”
Lucian’s jaw tightened.
“Camille.”
“Lucian.”
Nico whispered to Maria, “This is my favorite part of breakfast.”
Maria took away his plate.
“Hey.”
“You are enjoying danger.”
“I am enjoying character development.”
Camille folded her hands.
“You hired me to prepare both of you for the gala.”
“I hired you to prepare Nico.”
“You keep saying that, and reality keeps disagreeing.”
Lucian’s eyes flashed.
“This is not about etiquette.”
“It is exactly about etiquette.”
“That is absurd.”
“No. Etiquette is what you do when fear tells you to make every decision for everyone else.”
The room went silent.
Camille continued.
“You may be right that I am safer somewhere else. But you do not get to decide that without speaking to me. Ask.”
Lucian stared at her.
“Ask what?”
“Ask me whether I want to leave.”
Nico went still.
Camille held Lucian’s gaze.
For a man who could negotiate contracts, settle disputes, and direct an entire room with a look, the simple request seemed almost impossible.
Finally, Lucian said, “Would you prefer to leave the estate until Marco knows more?”
Camille smiled slightly.
“No.”
His expression darkened.
“That was not the answer I wanted.”
“But you asked.”
“I am beginning to regret your methods.”
“That means they’re working.”
Lucian sat back.
For several seconds he looked genuinely furious.
Then he looked tired.
That surprised her.
He turned to Marco.
“Double the perimeter. No changes to Ms. Brooks’s movement without her consent.”
Camille raised an eyebrow.
Lucian added, “Unless there is an immediate threat.”
“Reasonable.”
Nico lifted his coffee cup. “He said something reasonable. We should document the date.”
Lucian took the cup from his hand and set it down.
“Lesson two,” Camille said. “Do not confiscate other adults’ beverages.”
Nico laughed.
Even Marco smiled.
Lucian looked at all of them as if betrayal had become a household hobby.
The morning session began in the music room.
Camille arranged three chairs and assigned roles.
Nico would play an unpredictable donor.
Lucian would practice conversation.
Marco had been dragged in as a reluctant observer.
Nico leaned back dramatically.
“Mr. Moretti, your foundation is impressive, but I hear your family’s business reputation is… complicated.”
Lucian’s face went blank.
“Define complicated.”
Camille slapped her notebook against her palm.
“No.”
“What?”
“You just turned a conversation into a deposition.”
“He made an accusation.”
“He made an opening.”
“To what?”
“A conversation.”
Lucian looked unconvinced.
Camille stepped closer.
“Try this: ‘I understand the concern. The foundation publishes independent audits, and I’d be happy to discuss them.’”
“That sounds defensive.”
“It sounds civilized.”
“I prefer facts.”
“Facts can wear a jacket.”
Nico nodded. “I’m putting that on a pillow.”
They tried again.
This time Lucian managed the answer without sounding like he was deciding where to bury the donor.
Camille rewarded him with a small nod.
He noticed.
That irritated her.
Because she noticed that he noticed.
By noon, they moved outside to the estate terrace. Early autumn light spilled across the gardens. Beyond the stone walls, Chicago stretched in hazy blue layers.
Nico disappeared to rehearse his keynote.
Camille found Lucian alone near the balustrade.
“Is this where you come to brood?” she asked.
“I do not brood.”
“You have a designated balcony.”
“I own the balcony.”
“That is not a denial.”
He looked toward the skyline.
“My father used to bring us out here when we were boys.”
Camille stayed quiet.
Lucian continued after a moment.
“He would point at the city and tell us everything belonged to someone. Every street. Every building. Every favor. Every loyalty.”
“That sounds exhausting.”
“It was educational.”
“For a child?”
“For a Moretti.”
Camille heard the old lesson beneath the words.
Ownership.
Control.
Protection through possession.
“Is that why you treat Nico like one of your properties?”
Lucian turned sharply.
“That is not what I do.”
“No?”
“No.”
“Then what do you call it?”
“Keeping him from making the mistakes I made.”
“What mistakes?”
The question hung between them.
Lucian looked away.
“Trusting people who wanted something from me.”
Camille’s irritation faded.
“How old were you?”
“When I learned?”
“Yes.”
“Seventeen.”
She waited.
He did not explain.
She did not push.
For once, she understood that manners sometimes meant leaving a door unlocked without forcing anyone through it.
“Then maybe,” she said quietly, “Nico is not the only person you’re protecting.”
Lucian’s gaze returned to her.
For a second he looked less like Chicago’s feared Moretti and more like a man who had been carrying responsibility for so long he no longer remembered the shape of his own life without it.
Camille’s chest tightened.
Dangerous, she thought.
Not him.
This.
The silence between them.
The pull.
The sense that every sarcastic lesson was uncovering something neither of them had agreed to reveal.
Lucian’s phone buzzed.
He checked it.
His expression hardened.
“What?”
He did not answer immediately.
Then he handed her the phone.
Marco had sent a security still from the street outside Camille’s apartment.
A black sedan was parked across from the entrance.
Timestamp: three nights before Camille arrived at the estate.
Another image followed.
Same sedan.
Different day.
Camille’s mouth went dry.
“This started before I came here.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“That,” Lucian said, “is what I intend to find out.”
Camille looked at him.
“No threats. No disappearing people. No terrifying anyone into a confession.”
One eyebrow lifted.
“You have an imaginative view of my schedule.”
“I’m serious.”
“So am I.”
“Then promise me.”
Lucian’s gaze sharpened.
“Promise what?”
“That you’ll handle this legally.”
Something unreadable passed across his face.
“Camille, there are people in this city who do not respect legal boundaries.”
“That does not answer me.”
He stepped closer.
The breeze moved a strand of hair across her cheek.
Lucian reached up.
Stopped.
His hand remained suspended for one brief second before he lowered it.
That restraint felt more intimate than touch.
“I will not create a problem you have to defend,” he said.
It was not exactly the promise she had asked for.
But it was close.
Before she could respond, Nico burst through the terrace doors holding several pages.
“I have rewritten the speech.”
Lucian took one look at his brother.
“Why?”
“Because Camille said the original sounded like a committee wrote it.”
“A committee did write it.”
“Exactly.”
Nico handed the pages to Camille.
She read the first paragraph.
Her eyes lifted.
“This is good.”
Lucian reached for the paper.
Nico pulled it back.
“You called my last speech undisciplined.”
“It was.”
“You removed the part about Mrs. Alvarez.”
“She was not relevant to donor strategy.”
“She was the reason I started the housing program.”
Camille looked from one brother to the other.
There it was again.
Nico wanted people.
Lucian wanted systems.
Both believed they were protecting the same mission.
“Read it aloud,” Camille said.
Nico did.
The speech told the story of Mrs. Alvarez, a widowed grandmother who had lived in the same building for thirty-eight years before a rent increase nearly forced her out. The foundation’s housing program helped her remain in the neighborhood.
When Nico finished, the terrace was quiet.
Lucian looked toward the city.
Camille watched his profile.
“Well?” Nico asked.
Lucian took the pages.
“You need to cut the second paragraph.”
Nico’s face fell.
“Because?”
“It repeats the same point.”
Nico blinked.
“That’s it?”
“And keep Mrs. Alvarez.”
Nico stared.
Camille smiled.
Lucian noticed.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“You’re smiling.”
“You kept the human story.”
“It is relevant.”
“Of course.”
“Do not make this something it is not.”
Nico looked at Camille.
“Progress?”
“Severe but treatable.”
Lucian sighed.
Then Marco appeared in the doorway.
The humor vanished from his face.
“We found the sedan.”
Lucian turned.
“And?”
“Registered to a shell company.”
“Owned by?”
Marco hesitated.
“Nobody you expected.”
Lucian’s expression changed.
“Who?”
Marco looked at Nico.
Then back at Lucian.
“The company is tied to the Moretti Foundation.”
The terrace went silent.
May you like
Nico’s speech pages fluttered in the wind.
And for the first time, Camille saw fear in Lucian Moretti’s face—not fear for himself, but fear that the threat had come from inside the family he had built his entire life around protecting.
