Chapter 2 - THE FIRST RULE LUCA BROKE
Emma Carter discovered the first problem with pretending to date Luca Moretti less than twenty-four hours later.
The problem was not the lie.
It was Teresa.
At 8:06 the next morning, Emma walked into the breakfast room carrying a silver coffee service and found Luca’s grandmother sitting at the table with a yellow legal pad.
Teresa looked up.
“Good. You’re here.”
Emma stopped.
“Why do I feel like that sentence is dangerous?”
Luca sat at the far end of the table reading something on his phone.
He did not look up.
“Because you’ve developed instincts.”
Emma set down the coffee.
Teresa tapped the chair beside her.
“Sit.”
“I’m working.”
“You are dating my grandson.”
“I’m pretending to date your grandson.”
Teresa smiled.
“Details.”
“Important details.”
Luca finally looked up.
“Emma.”
“No.”
He had not even said anything yet.
His mouth twitched.
“That is becoming a reflex.”
“It’s preventive.”
Teresa pointed toward the chair again.
Emma stared at Luca.
“This is outside my job.”
He lifted one hand.
“Your rule.”
“Correct.”
“Then sit if you want.”
She hated that answer because it was technically respectful.
So she sat.
Teresa turned the legal pad around.
At the top:
EMMA + LUCA.
Below it:
FIRST DATE
FAVORITE RESTAURANT
WHEN FAMILY FINDS OUT
CHRISTMAS PLANS
WHO SAID I LOVE YOU FIRST
Emma stared.
“No.”
Teresa looked offended.
“What?”
“We are not building mythology before coffee.”
“People will ask.”
“Then people can survive unanswered questions.”
Teresa looked at Luca.
“She has boundaries.”
“Yes.”
“You like that.”
Emma turned.
“Do not answer.”
Luca went back to his phone.
“Apparently I don’t.”
Teresa grinned.
Emma poured coffee.
Then noticed the document beside Luca.
Guest list.
Tonight.
The San Gennaro Foundation winter benefit.
A formal dinner.
Her stomach tightened.
“You’re going tonight.”
Luca looked up.
“Yes.”
“With who?”
“You.”
She stared.
“No.”
Teresa looked delighted again.
Luca leaned back.
“This is exactly why the arrangement exists.”
“It started because you wanted your grandmother to stop arranging private dates.”
“And now she believes we’re together.”
“That does not automatically make me ballroom inventory.”
“Emma.”
“No.”
Teresa sipped coffee.
“This is better than television.”
Emma ignored her.
“What happens if I don’t go?”
Luca thought.
“People will ask.”
“Excellent. Let them.”
“Camille will be there.”
Emma paused.
That was different.
Camille Russo had not taken humiliation well.
Not that Emma blamed her entirely.
Camille had arrived expecting a date and discovered the man had hired household staff to help sabotage it.
Embarrassing.
Then Camille had insulted Emma’s weight and employment in front of everyone.
Less sympathetic.
“What does Camille matter?” Emma asked.
Luca’s face changed slightly.
“She is a Russo.”
Emma knew the name.
Everyone did.
The Russos controlled several waterfront unions, two construction firms, and a series of restaurants that somehow remained profitable despite never being full.
“Is that dangerous?”
“No.”
Too fast.
Emma stared.
“That was your third condition.”
He exhaled.
“No lying if this puts you in danger.”
“Yes.”
“So?”
Luca placed the phone down.
“Camille’s family is not dangerous to you because of last night.”
“That is a very specific sentence.”
He almost smiled.
“They may dislike the implication that I rejected a Russo daughter for someone outside their world.”
“Outside their world meaning maid?”
“Meaning anyone they did not choose.”
Emma folded her arms.
“Better.”
“But there is no current threat.”
“Current.”
Teresa looked between them.
“I dislike how many words you two have that require lawyers.”
Emma almost laughed.
Then Luca said:
“If you come tonight, I’ll make sure you are not treated like staff.”
Her eyes narrowed.
“You’d better not.”
He frowned.
“That was intended as reassurance.”
“It sounded like you think being treated like staff means being treated badly.”
Luca stopped.
Good.
Emma continued.
“I work in your house. That is not shameful.”
“I know.”
“Then don’t suddenly act like you discovered class dignity because you need me in a dress.”
Teresa lowered her coffee slowly.
Luca looked at Emma for several seconds.
Then:
“You’re right.”
Emma blinked.
Teresa blinked.
Even Luca looked mildly irritated by his own sentence.
Emma recovered first.
“Good.”
Teresa whispered:
“I need witnesses.”
Luca ignored her.
“What would make tonight acceptable?”
Emma thought.
“Transportation there and back.”
“Obviously.”
“Not with six men pretending I’m a national asset.”
“Two.”
“One.”
“Two.”
She stared.
He stared back.
“Fine.”
“Second?”
“You tell whoever needs telling that I work for you and that nobody is to apologize for it.”
Luca’s expression sharpened.
“Why would anyone apologize?”
Emma gave him a look.
He understood.
People in rooms like that often assumed service work required a sad explanation.
Single mother?
Divorce?
Tragedy?
As if nobody could simply be good at work the rich depended on.
“Done.”
“Third, I choose my dress.”
He looked confused.
“Why would I choose?”
Teresa and Emma said together:
“Exactly.”
Luca closed his eyes.
This was becoming an alliance.
Against him.
Then Teresa announced:
“I have a stylist.”
“No,” Emma said.
“She’s excellent.”
“No.”
“She dresses senators.”
“That is not persuasive.”
Teresa sighed dramatically.
Emma stood.
“I have a dress.”
Luca looked at her.
“For tonight?”
“Yes.”
“What kind?”
Emma smiled.
“My rule about deliberately embarrassing you.”
His eyes narrowed.
“What did you buy?”
“You’ll find out.”
She left before he could answer.
That evening, Luca waited in the foyer in a black tuxedo.
Nico Moretti, his cousin and security chief, stood near the door.
Teresa appeared first.
Black velvet.
Diamonds.
Then Emma came down the stairs.
Luca forgot whatever he had been about to say.
She wore deep green.
Not black.
Not something designed to disappear.
The dress followed her shape instead of hiding it.
Soft neckline.
Long sleeves.
No apology in the cut.
Her dark hair was pinned loosely at the back.
Gold earrings.
Nothing expensive enough to suggest Luca had bought them.
Exactly as promised.
Emma reached the bottom step.
“Well?”
Luca said nothing.
Teresa smiled.
“Oh, he’s useless.”
Emma raised one eyebrow.
“Mr. Moretti?”
He recovered.
“You look beautiful.”
Not strategic.
Not part of performance.
Just true.
Emma’s expression changed for half a second.
Then:
“That was dangerously normal.”
He almost smiled.
They left.
At the benefit, the first thirty minutes went well.
Too well.
That should have worried Emma.
People stared.
Whispered.
Asked polite questions.
“How did you meet?”
“At work,” Emma said.
True.
“What do you do?”
“I manage half of Luca’s household because apparently grown men cannot locate clean towels without support.”
Luca nearly choked on his drink.
Women laughed.
A few men too.
One older woman asked:
“Were you in domestic service long?”
Emma smiled.
“I still am.”
The woman blinked.
Emma continued.
“I’m also finishing hospitality operations certification.”
Luca looked at her.
He hadn’t known about certification.
Again.
Things he never asked.
“Where?” he said quietly.
Emma glanced at him.
“City College extension.”
“You’re nearly finished?”
“Two months.”
He felt the same uncomfortable realization as before.
She had spent four years in his house.
He knew she hated lilies in floral arrangements because the pollen stained tablecloths.
He knew she drank tea, not coffee.
He knew she always wore soft-soled shoes because marble killed her knees.
But not that she went to class twice a week.
Camille Russo arrived at 8:17.
Red dress.
Perfect smile.
She saw Emma.
Then Luca.
Then their joined hands.
Emma had forgotten they were holding hands.
Not because anybody was watching.
Luca had offered his arm crossing the crowded room.
Somewhere, her hand had moved to his.
Camille noticed.
Her smile sharpened.
“How convincing.”
Emma withdrew her hand.
Luca’s face changed.
Camille stepped closer.
“I see the performance continues.”
Luca said:
“Camille.”
“Don’t worry. I’m not here to cause a scene.”
That usually meant someone was.
Camille looked at Emma.
“Though I do admire the wardrobe improvement.”
Emma smiled.
“Thank you.”
“It’s remarkable what access to money can do.”
Luca’s expression hardened.
Emma stopped him with one look.
Her fight.
“My dress cost one hundred eighty dollars.”
Camille blinked.
Emma continued.
“The alterations cost forty because pockets are apparently considered luxury engineering.”
A woman nearby laughed.
Camille’s smile thinned.
Then a man joined them.
Mid-fifties.
Gray suit.
Russo family consigliere, according to Luca’s memory.
Anthony Vella.
He looked at Emma longer than was polite.
Then smiled.
“So you’re the surprise.”
Emma did not like the sentence.
Neither did Luca.
Anthony extended a hand.
Emma took it.
He turned her fingers slightly.
Not flirtation.
Inspection.
Luca stepped forward.
“Enough.”
Anthony released her.
“I meant no offense.”
Emma rubbed her hand.
“What were you looking for?”
Anthony smiled.
“Ring.”
“There isn’t one.”
“Yet.”
Luca’s jaw tightened.
Anthony looked at him.
“People are curious how serious this is.”
Emma understood.
Not romance.
Politics.
Luca’s fake girlfriend had become information.
“If you need family strategy,” Emma said, “ask him.”
Anthony looked amused.
“And if I want to know whether you’re real?”
Emma smiled.
“Ask me something I’m required to answer.”
That wiped the amusement away.
Luca almost laughed.
Then Anthony leaned closer.
“Be careful.”
The tone changed.
Emma stopped smiling.
“About what?”
“Moretti women are expected to know when attention becomes expensive.”
Luca moved.
Fast.
Not violent.
Just close.
“Repeat that.”
Anthony met his eyes.
Silence.
Then smiled.
“Enjoy the evening.”
He left.
Emma watched him disappear.
“That was a threat.”
“Yes.”
Luca’s voice was flat.
She turned.
“You told me no current threat.”
“There wasn’t.”
“Now?”
“There is.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know yet.”
That answer frightened her more because it was honest.
Then Luca said:
“We’re leaving.”
Emma stared.
“No.”
“Emma.”
“You agreed outside my job, you don’t order me around.”
“This is security.”
“Then explain security.”
His jaw tightened.
She folded her arms.
People nearby pretended not to watch.
He lowered his voice.
“Anthony Vella doesn’t give meaningless warnings.”
“Good. What did that one mean?”
“I don’t know.”
“So we leave because you’re uncomfortable?”
“Because I’m not risking you for a fundraiser.”
Emma studied him.
Not control.
Not performance.
Fear.
Real fear.
“Fine.”
They left.
In the car, she sat beside him.
Silent.
Then:
“You’re angry.”
“Yes.”
“At him?”
“Yes.”
“At me?”
“No.”
She looked out the window.
“Good.”
A minute later:
“Luca.”
“What?”
“If this gets worse, fake relationship ends.”
He looked at her.
“That’s fair.”
“And recommendation still happens.”
“Yes.”
“No punishing me for leaving.”
His expression changed.
“I wouldn’t.”
Emma looked directly at him.
“Don’t answer automatically.”
He stopped.
She continued.
“You’re used to loyalty meaning staying.”
That landed.
“Yes.”
“I need loyalty to sometimes mean leaving before something becomes dangerous.”
He looked out the opposite window.
Then nodded.
“Agreed.”
Emma leaned back.
And for the first time since the arrangement began, neither of them joked.
Because somewhere between a ballroom insult and a quiet warning, their ridiculous fake relationship had become visible to people Luca did not fully understand.
And one of those people had just warned Emma Moretti women knew when attention became expensive.
Emma was not a Moretti woman.
May you like
Not really.
But someone had already decided she was close enough to use.
