Chapter 3 - The Price of RestorationRosalie turned the key.
The door swung inward. Vittorio stood in the dimly lit hallway, his suit jacket removed, his white shirt sleeves rolled up to his forearms, revealing the lean, corded muscle of a man who lived a life very different from the boardroom meetings Graham used to brag about.
He didn't look inside. He stayed standing in the threshold, his hands tucked casually into his trouser pockets.
"You should be sleeping," Rosalie said, crossing her arms defensively.
"I sleep when the accounts balance," Vittorio replied, his dark eyes sweeping over her face. He noted the dark circles under her eyes, the rigid set of her shoulders. "You're angry."
"I'm numb."
"That comes before the anger. Step out into the hall. Or invite me in. Which is it?"
Rosalie hesitated, then stepped back, opening the door wider. Vittorio walked in, his footsteps completely silent against the Persian rug. He didn't sit on the bed or the sofa; he walked straight to the window where she had been sitting, looking out at the snow-covered gardens below.
"Your stepfather thinks he’s clever," Vittorio said, his back to her. "He thought if he dumped his problem on my doorstep, I would either keep you as a trophy or discard you, and either way, his debt would be written off as a bizarre settlement."
"And did you?" Rosalie asked sharply. "Write it off?"
Vittorio turned around. The streetlights from below caught the silver at his temples, sharpening his features.
"I never forgive a debt, Rosalie. But I collect from the person who signed the ledger. Caleb stole three million dollars through a digital routing system that led straight back to a shell corporation owned jointly by Graham and his primary investors. By sunrise, their construction firm will be seized by federal marshals for wire fraud and money laundering."
Rosalie stared at him. "You didn't just break their kneecaps?"
A dry, humorless chuckle escaped Vittorio’s lips. "Kneecaps don't pay dividends, Ms. Mercer. Legal destruction is much more permanent. And much more painful."
He walked a step closer, stopping just outside her personal space.
"Which brings us to you. You are an expert in textile restoration. You spent ten years saving the 1863 regimental flags for the Philadelphia Historical Society, correct?"
Rosalie blinked, surprised. "How do you know that?"
"I don't hire people without checking their credentials," Vittorio said smoothly. "My private archive contains several ecclesiastical vestments from the late sixteenth century that were damaged in a fire at our family estate in Sicily fifty years ago. They have been sitting in crates because no one in North America has the delicate touch required to save the gold-thread embroidery."
He looked down at her hands—hands that were currently clenched into fists at her sides.
"I am not offering you charity, Rosalie. I am offering you a contract. You restore my family’s history. I pay you a standard museum curator's salary, plus hazard pay for living under my roof. And when you finish—whether that takes six months or six years—you walk out those front gates with enough money to buy back your downtown workshop twice over."
Rosalie looked up into his eyes. There was no mockery there. No manipulation. Just an open, terrifyingly clear proposition.
May you like
"And if I say no?"
"Then my driver takes you to the Four Seasons downtown," Vittorio said softly. "The room is already paid for through the end of the month. You are free."
