Mistress to a Monster

Milah wasn’t acting how he expected a Russo brat to act.

Angry, he turned off the screens, shut down the feed, and then left the room to go to his office where the maid looked nervous.

“Why did you help her?” he asked.

“Pardon, sir?”

“The Russo in the kitchen, why did you help her?” He folded his arms, waiting for an answer. He could hurt her, but she hadn’t done anything wrong.

“No one helped her. She only asked where the spices were, and they all ignored her. She looked … sad, sir. I am sorry.”

“What is your name?” he asked.

“Glory.”

“You’re not afraid of her?”

Glory shook her head.

“Why not?”

“She … she is … nice.”

He glared at her head. The maid wouldn’t look at him.

“And you’re aware she is a Russo?”

“Forgive me.”

Why was she bowing her head? “Look at me,” he said.

Glory lifted her head, and he saw fear in her eyes. He knew why. Some maids who tried to escape had ended up dead. Anyone who tried to betray the De Luca name always ended up dead.

They had a choice.

“You are not afraid of Milah?”

“No, sir.”

“Then how would you like to earn your freedom?” he asked.

“Sir?”

He smiled, and she took a step back. “If you want to earn your freedom, you are to befriend Milah. Find out all of her secrets, and you are to report them to me, understood?”

“But how do I … I have my jobs to do.”

“Not anymore. Your one and only task is to be by Milah’s side from the moment she wakes up until I dismiss you. Deal?”

Glory looked at the hand he offered and waited. If she refused, he would have her killed.

She put her hand within his, and he was surprised by how firm her grip was. He now had someone who could learn all of Milah’s secrets. The kind that were never traceable.

Glory left his office, and he made the arrangements for his men and staff to know that she wouldn’t be available to them. She had a different job to do.

He was finishing up some emails when his office door was knocked on once again.

“Come in,” he said.

His chef, Renaldo, entered the room. He had cooked for his parents and had offered his services to him.

“What is it, Renaldo?” he asked.

“In all of my years of service, I have never been so insulted,” he said.

“No?” Damon asked, leaning back in his chair to look at the chef. “And how have you been insulted?”

He liked Renaldo.

His father had said he was the best chef in the world, and he didn’t doubt that, but looking at the older man, he had to wonder if it was time to retire him.

“Having that Russo whore in my kitchen. It is an insult I cannot bear.”

Hearing Milah insulted shouldn’t have bothered him. She was a Russo. The name was nothing more than an insult to his men and to his staff.

The Russos were vile. A name to be disgusted in having.

But hearing this man insult Milah, calling her a whore, didn’t bode well with him.

“Be careful,” he said. “Milah is my guest.”

“Sir, she is … she should never be allowed to touch your … the kitchen…”

Damon held his hand up. “She is cooking a meal that reminds her of her mother. Would you deny a woman that right?” he asked.

“That is my kitchen,” the chef said. “Your father would not stand for it.”