Chapter 8 The quiet knife

Lina's POV

“Don… are you threatening me over this?” the man asked, disbelief cracking his voice.

I stared at Carlino—at the calm brutality in the way he stood there, unbothered. For a moment, I even forgot how to breathe. He had just drawn blood without lifting a finger.

“I’m not threatening you,” Carlino said coolly. “I’m informing you.” He gestured toward the corridor. “Go to my cabin. Wait for me there.”

Damien hesitated—just a second too long—then thought better of it. He nodded once and left without another word. Silence followed. Heavy. Suffocating.

“And you.” Carlino’s voice sliced through it, sharp enough to snap my head up. “Go back to that room. Clear it. Clean everything.”

I let out a short, incredulous laugh before I could stop myself. “Gracious Lord,” I muttered, lifting my chin. “That room is massive. You honestly expect me to clean it alone?”

His eyes flicked to me. Cold. Warning.

“Why don’t you just send your fucking househelps instead?” I added, irritation spilling over now.

“I do not keep women in my hou—”

“Then why am I the exception?” I cut in, meeting his gaze without flinching.

The room went still.

Carlino stepped closer. Not fast. Not loud. Just enough to remind me who held the knife in this conversation.

“You don’t interrupt me,” he said quietly. “And you don’t question me.” His tone hardened. “You are nothing more than a maid. Act like it. You have forty minutes.”

“Forty minutes?” I scoffed. “That’s impossible, and you know it.”

He didn’t respond. He simply turned and walked away, brushing past me as if I were nothing—less than air. A peasant daring to exist in his path.

I clenched my fists, jaw tight, watching his retreating back.

How was I supposed to even start cleaning that room?

Forty minutes.

Fine.

Let’s see what damage I can do in forty minutes.

I returned with the plates, carrying them carefully back to the kitchen. The cabinets were a maze—one after another, I rifled through them, searching for cleaning supplies. The last cabinet, tucked under the counter, finally gave up its secret. The agents sat neatly inside, as if waiting for me.

After I was done cleaning the room where the meeting was held, I went back to the kitchen.

I scrubbed the dishes at the sink, letting the warm water and soap cover my frustration. For a moment, I hummed softly, savoring the rare quiet—free from Carlino’s watchful eyes or his men lingering in the corners.

No maids here. How then was I supposed to get the information I wanted?

His house wasn’t just a house—it was a fortress. And he had no help? That was curious. Suspicious. I hummed again, plotting silently as I rinsed each plate.

“You have a lovely voice.” The voice froze me mid-motion. I spun around and saw him—Carlino’s father, the wheelchair at the doorway, hands folded calmly over the armrests, eyes sharper than a blade despite his age.

“Thank you,” I said, stopping the hum. I set the plate down carefully.

He didn’t move closer. He didn’t need to. Presence was enough.

“People hum when they’re thinking,” he said mildly, “or when they’re trying not to think.”

I swallowed. “I was just… passing time, sir.”

A faint smile flickered on his lips—never reaching his eyes. “No,” he said. “You were planning.”

My fingers tightened on the sponge, then I forced them to relax. “I don’t plan. I do what I’m told.”

He studied me. Long enough to make the silence heavy.

“That’s what they all say at first,” he murmured, pausing. “Tell me, Lina… do you know why my son keeps you?”

The words hit harder than they should have. “For work,” I said, carefully. Any other answer sounded foolish.

He hummed low, thoughtful. “If that were true,” he said slowly, “he would have handed you over to the house staff in their quarters and forgotten your name.” He tilted his head. “But here you are, in the main wing, washing dishes you weren’t hired for.”

I returned to the sink, pretending the water demanded all my attention. So he had staff—and he was making me do this?

“I don’t get to choose where I am,” I said evenly.

“No,” he agreed softly. “But you choose how you survive.” His gaze pressed between my shoulder blades like a weight.

“You’re not frightened of this house,” he continued. “You’re irritated by it. That tells me a lot.”

I hesitated, then couldn’t stop the words. “And what does that tell you, sir?”

Another smile, sharper this time.

“That you won’t stay traded for long,” he said. “One way or another.”

The room went quiet.

Behind me, the wheels shifted slightly. “Be careful, Lina,” he added over his shoulder. “My son notices ambition. Especially when it hums while washing dishes.”

I nodded once, unsure if he wanted a reply.

“You should finish before the water cools,” he said, moving toward the doorway. “Cold hands make careless mistakes.”

“Yes, sir,” I murmured, keeping my voice steady.

He stopped at the doorway. “Oh, and Lina—”

I turned.

“People who think while they work,” he said calmly, “either rise… or disappear.” Then he left.

The sound of running water filled the sudden emptiness. I kept scrubbing the plate in my hands, even though it was already clean, as if stopping would force my mind to wander too clearly.

He hadn’t raised his voice.

He hadn’t asked questions.

He hadn’t demanded answers.

That was what unsettled me most.

I lifted my chin, letting the faint spark of defiance settle in my chest. He might see ambition. But ambition didn’t mean submission. Not yet.

Men who relied on power announced it. Men who relied on fear made it obvious. But men like Carlino’s father—men who had ruled and remembered how—only observed. They watched long enough for you to betray yourself without knowing it. I shut off the tap, resting both palms on the edge of the sink.

I had kept my words measured, my expression neutral, my breathing controlled—made myself small, useful, forgettable. That was how traded things survived. And yet he had noticed. Not my voice, not obedience—but the pauses before I spoke, the way my mind drifted while my hands worked, the absence of fear where it should have lived. That was where the chill settled. The real danger here wasn’t loud tempers or armed men—it was the quiet ones who no longer needed to prove anything.

Being seen, I realized, wasn’t protection or opportunity. It was a selection. Even without eyes on me, he had already measured me, weighed me against a standard I hadn’t chosen.

In a house built on ownership and leverage, that meant I had crossed a line without stepping over it. I wasn’t invincible. And in a place like this, nothing invisible stayed untouched for long.