Chapter 4 - SATURDAY MORNING
Saturday dawned bright, crisp, and smelling faintly of woodsmoke and autumn leaves.
At 8:30 AM, inside the small staff quarters behind the west wing of the Duca estate, Hannah Bennett stood in front of a cracked mirror, frantically smoothing down the collar of her daughter’s Sunday-best yellow dress.
“Emma, honey, stand still for one second,” Hannah pleaded, her hands shaking slightly as she tied a matching yellow ribbon into the little girl’s braided hair.
“Mom, is he really coming?” Emma asked for the fifth time, her big brown eyes shining with an impossibly bright mixture of anxiety and excitement. “What if he forgot? What if big houses don't have cars that come out on Saturdays?”
Before Hannah could answer, a low, smooth hum echoed from the gravel driveway outside the staff quarters.
Hannah walked over to the narrow window and pulled back the lace curtain.
Parked outside was a matte-black Mercedes-Maybach S-Class—a vehicle that cost more than a comfortable suburban home. The rear door clicked open, and Lorenzo Duca stepped out onto the gravel.
He wasn't wearing a tuxedo or a business suit. He wore a dark charcoal crewneck cashmere sweater over a crisp white button-down shirt, dark denim jeans, and clean leather shoes. He looked rugged, approachable, and entirely out of place in a working-class neighborhood driveway.
A sharp knock sounded at the door.
Hannah took a deep, steadying breath, wiped her palms on her apron, and pulled the door open.
“Good morning, Hannah,” Lorenzo said smoothly. Then he looked down past her.
Emma stood frozen by the kitchen table, her jaw slightly slack, clutching her stuffed rabbit under one arm.
“Mr... Mr. Duca,” Emma stammered, remembering her manners. “You came.”
Lorenzo crouched down to his familiar one-knee stance, bringing himself down to her height. “I told you one day, Emma Bennett. And I don’t break contracts.”
He reached into the pocket of his sweater and pulled out a small, foil-wrapped package, handing it to her. “Your mother mentioned you liked blueberry muffins from the bakery down on 4th Street. They were still warm when I picked them up.”
Emma gasped, taking the package with both hands. “You went to the bakery? The regular one?”
“The very same.”
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Hannah stood in the doorway, her eyes suspiciously bright as she watched the most feared man in New York hand a pastry to her six-year-old daughter. “Mr. Duca... I don't know how to thank you. You didn't have to do all this. You could have just sent a car, or a gift, or—”
“I gave my word to my partner for the relay race, Hannah,” Lorenzo interrupted, standing back up and offering a gentle, reassuring smile that softened his sharp features entirely. “Shall we go? We wouldn't want to be late for opening ceremonies.”
