Page 14 of In His Name

"Mrs. Severino," Thompson says, his tone professional but not cold. "There's been a plumbing issue reported in the east wing. Maintenance needs to check all the bathrooms on this floor. It shouldn't take more than a few minutes."

Standard enough—a maintenance check, explained clearly, nothing inappropriate in the communication itself. But it's Rivera who steps forward next, unnecessarily close to Hannah,his voice dropping to a level just barely captured by the surveillance microphones.

"Don't worry," he says, and there's something in his tone—a gentleness, a humanity that crosses the line from professional to personal. "We'll make it quick. I know how much you value your privacy."

Hannah says nothing, just nods slightly, but something passes between them—a look, a moment of acknowledged humanity that makes my blood run cold, then hot with sudden, violent rage. Rivera spoke to her as a person, showed concern for her feelings, acknowledged her as something other than my possession. Worse, he presumed to understand her, to know what she values, to establish even this small connection that exists outside my control, my approval.

Unacceptable. Completely unacceptable.

I'm on my feet, moving toward the door before conscious thought catches up with instinct. My security detail falls in behind me as I stride through the corridors toward Hannah's suite, my mind replaying that moment—Rivera's tone, Hannah's response, the unauthorized, unapproved interaction.

By the time I reach her door, the maintenance check is complete, the plumbers gone. Thompson stands at his post outside, Rivera apparently having departed after the handoff. Hannah has returned to her window seat, to her book, to the appearance of normalcy.

"Where is Rivera?" I ask Thompson, my voice deceptively calm despite the rage burning through me.

Thompson straightens, immediately sensing danger though unclear of its source. "He should be in the security office, sir, completing his shift report before leaving."

"Find him," I instruct one of my personal guards. "Bring him to interrogation room three. Tell Marco to meet us there. No one speaks to him before I arrive."

The guard nods, departing immediately. I turn to Thompson, who stands rigidly at attention, sweat beginning to bead on his forehead despite the controlled temperature.

"Did Rivera enter Mrs. Severino's suite with you?" I ask, though I already know the answer.

"Yes, sir. Standard procedure for maintenance checks—two guards present when outside personnel enter restricted areas."

"And did he speak directly to Mrs. Severino?"

Thompson hesitates, sensing the trap but unable to lie with surveillance records that could contradict him. "Briefly, sir. Nothing inappropriate. Just explaining the maintenance visit."

"I will determine what is inappropriate," I say, my voice hardening. "You are relieved of duty for the remainder of the day. Report to Marco tomorrow for reassignment. Your post at Mrs. Severino's door is permanently terminated."

The color drains from Thompson's face—not being fired outright is a relief, but being removed from what is considered a prestigious position within the security detail is a significant demotion. "Yes, sir. I apologize for any breach of protocol."

I ignore his apology, turning to enter Hannah's suite without knocking. She looks up as I enter, her book closing automatically, her posture straightening—conditioned responses to my presence that normally please me but today seem insufficient given the violation that has occurred.

"Dante," she says, the use of my name without the honorific 'sir' a small defiance she still sometimes attempts. Today it only fuels my anger further. "I wasn't expecting you until evening."

"Plans change," I reply, studying her face for signs of collusion, for evidence that she encouraged Rivera's familiar tone, his unauthorized concern. "The guard who was here earlier—Rivera. What did he say to you?"

Wariness enters her expression, the caution of prey sensing a predator's focus. "Just that maintenance needed to check the bathroom plumbing. Nothing else."

"He expressed concern for your privacy," I press, moving closer to her. "He presumed to know what you value, what you need. An intimacy that exceeds his position."

Hannah's eyes widen slightly, realization dawning. "It was nothing," she says quickly. "Just a casual comment. He was being polite."

"Polite," I repeat, the word like acid on my tongue. "Guards are not paid to be polite to you, Hannah. They are paid to secure you, to ensure you remain where you belong. Social niceties are not part of that function."

She says nothing, recognizing the danger in my mood, the futility of further explanation or defense. Smart girl. She's learning when to fight and when to submit, when resistance only ensures greater consequences.

"You will come with me," I instruct, extending my hand to her. "There's something you need to witness."

Hesitation flickers across her face before she places her hand in mine, allowing me to pull her to her feet. I lead her from the suite, my personal guards falling in behind us as we move through the mansion toward the lower levels where the interrogation rooms are located.

Hannah has never been to this part of the estate. Her steps slow as we descend the stairs, the décor changing from opulent to utilitarian, the lighting harsher, the air cooler. "Where are we going?" she asks, her voice barely above a whisper.

"To observe a lesson in boundaries," I reply, my grip on her hand tightening as we approach interrogation room three. "To understand the consequences of inappropriate interactions."

Marco waits outside the room, his expression carefully neutral despite the unusual situation. Hannah's presence inthis area of the mansion is unprecedented, a deviation from established protocols. But Marco knows better than to question my decisions, especially when I'm in this mood.

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