No. I had not fallen.
Two hours earlier, Isabella had cornered me in the pantry after accusing me of breaking a crystal serving bowl I had never even touched. She had shut the heavy door. Grabbed my arm hard enough to leave marks. And when I tried to leave, she had shoved me backward with all her strength. My leg had slammed into the sharp corner of a wooden storage bench — a crack of pain so violent I cried out, so deep I could not stand for nearly a minute. And while I lay there gasping, Isabella had simply adjusted her diamond bracelet, looked down at me with pure disdain, and whispered, “You should be more careful.”
Now she stood ten feet away, watching me. Waiting to see what I would do.
I forced air into my lungs. “Yes, sir.”
Luca’s eyes did not leave mine. “Where?”
I hesitated. One word. One word would change everything.
“The pantry.”
Behind him, Isabella went completely still. Luca noticed — I saw it in the slight, dangerous shift of his jaw. Then he did something I will never forget: he crouched down in front of me, a mafia boss in a three-thousand-dollar suit, kneeling on the cold marble beside a housekeeper. His gaze traveled to the bruise.