Page 40 of Chains of Recompense
Chiaroscuros don’t do cozy domestic mornings.
They do strategized survival.
Asking one of the household staff for directions, I head to the kitchen—one of the few areas of the house that seem to be fully functional.
People move around efficiently, going through motions wired by routine.
One of the staff members sees me and startles, nearly dropping a plate.
I forgot it might be weird to show up half-dressed in a house full of criminals and employees.
In the Murray house, the staff is considered more an extension of the family than hired help—and I often joined in on the menial tasks of cooking and cleaning because, like my mother, I don’t enjoy idle hands and certainly don’t consider myself above the work.
But here, it would seem my presence is neither expected, nor appreciated.
And I fumble to recover as I consider the best way to move forward with my temporary living circumstances. “Coffee. Please,” I murmur, running a shaky hand through my hair. Myvoice comes out hoarse. Raw. Not at all like someone who has their shit together.
“Yes, Signora Chiaroscuro,” the woman replies nervously.
The title hits like a slap, and I want to correct her—want to tell her not to call me that, because it’s not my name—but the words stick.
Because I did marry Raf.
And everyone here will see me as his.
The woman sets a mug down on the small table in front of me, steam rising.
Taking a seat with a word of thanks, I wrap my hands around it like it’s the only warm, steady thing in my life.
I take a long sip. Bitter, perfect. My head clears a little.
The house vibrates with life and conflict and ghosts.
I can feel the weight of it—the death that happened here, the violence that tore this place apart. The grief embedded in the walls.
The Chiaroscuros lost their father, their empire, everything they built.
And for the first time, it sinks in that it wasn’t just the Chiaroscuro brothers whose lives were torn apart the day my family helped the Tanakas tear apart their home.
These workers must have suffered from the violence, the trauma of losing their place of work, their employment, maybe even their home.
Guilt churns in my gut at the thought.
I can’t imagine they’re too happy with their new Don for marrying me.
But they keep their eyes averted, their expressions neutral as they go about their day, not giving anything away.
I take another swallow of coffee.
A door upstairs opens, footsteps sounding on the stairs. Which means the peace of this moment is on borrowed time.
My stomach knots, stupidly fluttery at the thought that it might be Raf coming down to join me—anticipation tangled with irritation, desire tangled with disgust.
I stare into the dark swirl of my coffee.
How long will this marriage last?
How long until he slips past my defenses just by existing too close?
