Chapter 4 - A Shadow in the Study
Alessandro Moretti did not believe in ghosts. He believed in leverage, in ledgers, in loyalty bought and paid for, and in the cold, hard certainty of concrete and steel. Yet, ever since the new maid had arrived, something in the atmosphere of his fortress had shifted.
It was subtle at first. A faint smudge of crayon on a baseboard near the kitchen. The faint, sweet smell of baby powder lingering near the back stairs where children were never supposed to be. Once, while walking down the eastern corridor late at night after a conference with his capos, he thought he heard the faint, muffled sound of a child humming. When he opened his study door and looked out, the hallway was completely empty.
Sitting at his massive walnut desk late one evening, Alessandro poured himself a finger of scotch. He stared at the white espresso cup with the blue rim sitting neatly beside his laptop. The weight of his empire felt heavier than usual tonight. The rival factions in Chicago were testing his borders, and a shipment from Palermo had been delayed by customs. Yet, his mind kept drifting to a small detail Signora Greco had mentioned during her weekly report.
“The new girl, Lily... she has a daughter. A little girl named Mia. Three years old.”
Alessandro had immediately tightened his jaw. Children did not belong in this house. This house was a tomb disguised as a mansion. It was a place for men with blood on their hands and secrets buried in their backyards. He had opened his mouth to tell Signora Greco to dismiss them both by morning, but something had stopped him—a strange, heavy hesitation that disgusted him.
He stood up, walked over to the tall French doors leading to the balcony, and pushed them open. The cold autumn wind rushed in, whipping his black hair across his forehead. He stared out into the dark gardens, his mind flashing back to a memory he fought every single day to suppress: honey-brown hair catching the light, a tiny hand waving from the steps, and then... nothing. Silence. Fire. Smoke.
He gripped the stone railing so hard his knuckles turned white.
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"You're dead," he whispered into the dark night air, speaking to the ghosts of his past. "Why won't you leave me alone?"
He turned back inside, determined to end it. Tomorrow, he would look the maid in the eye and tell her she had to go. He would give her a generous envelope of cash—more than she could earn in a year—and make sure she disappeared from his life forever. Because in the world of Alessandro Moretti, caring was a fatal weakness, and he had already buried everyone he was ever allowed to love.
