Chapter 9: Ascending the Service Stairs
We didn't risk taking the elevator back up. Instead, we climbed the narrow, winding service stairwell that coiled upward through the heart of the estate like a forgotten spine. Every step up brought us closer to the ambient sound of classical string quartets and murmured cocktail conversations echoing from the grand ballroom overhead. The contrast was dizzying—one moment we were knee-deep in the damp, criminal history of the family's sub-basement, and the next we were brushing shoulders with politicians, corporate executives, and society elites who wouldn't know a corrupted ledger if it bit them.
My calves burned from the relentless climb, and the fabric of my black-and-white maid's dress clung damply to my skin. Luca walked a few steps ahead, his tuxedo jacket discarded earlier in the archives, leaving him in a crisp white dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his forearms. The dark ink of his neck tattoo peeked out above his collar, a sharp reminder that despite his wealth and pedigree, he belonged to a world governed by different, far more dangerous rules than the polite society gathered above.
When we reached the service landing on the third floor—just past the private suites reserved for the family—Luca stopped, holding up a hand to signal silence. Through the heavy mahogany door leading to the main corridor, we could hear the rustle of silk gowns and the crisp clinking of crystal.
“We need to get to my suite,” Luca whispered, turning his head slightly to look back at me. “My private safe has the physical hard copies of the offshore shell company registrations. The digital files in the archive are easily erased by corporate proxies; physical paper leaves a paper trail they can’t scrub.”
“And if someone sees us?” I asked, adjusting the collar of my dress to ensure the silver pendant and the tiny D.D. ring were completely concealed from view. “A maid walking down the private family corridor with the head of the empire isn't going to look like routine housekeeping.”
Luca’s mouth curved into a faint, grim smile—the first real smile I had seen from him all night. He stepped close, his tall frame shielding me entirely from the narrow window in the stairwell door as a pair of gala guests strolled past outside.
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“Let them look,” he said softly, his gaze locking onto mine with an intensity that made my breath hitch. “For tonight, you’re not staff. You’re my guest.”
Before I could process the weight of his words, he pushed the heavy door open, stepping out into the brightly lit corridor with effortless confidence. I straightened my posture, lifted my chin, and followed right beside him, stepping boldly out of the shadows and into the lion's den.
