Chapter 4 - Whispers in the East Wing
The eastern wing of the Moretti estate was a labyrinth of high ceilings, dark wood paneling, and long hallways lined with portraits of stern, unsmiling ancestors who seemed to judge every living soul passing beneath them. Signora Greco led Lily and Clara up a curving staircase, their footsteps muffled by thick Persian rugs.
"You'll sleep in the staff annex on the second floor," Signora Greco instructed, her voice dropping to a nervous whisper as they rounded a corner. "Your duties start at five every morning. You will clean the library, dust the east parlor, and assist in the kitchen. But listen to me very carefully, Lily—you and your little girl are invisible here. You stay away from the ground floor when the master is dining. You stay away from his study. And above all else, you never, ever go near the third-floor eastern corridor."
Lily adjusted Clara on her hip, her heart still hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird. "What's on the third floor?" she asked softly, keeping her voice low to respect the intimidating atmosphere of the house.
Signora Greco stopped walking, turning around with a look so grave it made Lily's blood run cold. "Nothing that concerns you," the old woman said flatly. "A locked room. A ghost. Leave it be. If the master catches wind of you wandering where you shouldn't, not even God can save your job—or your skin."
They reached a small, neat room overlooking the overgrown rose garden. It was modest compared to the rest of the mansion, but it was warm, clean, and safe. After helping Lily settle her meager belongings—two suitcases holding all their worldly possessions—Signora Greco hurried away, eager to put as much distance between herself and the explosive incident in the foyer as possible.
Once the door clicked shut, Lily sat down on the edge of the narrow iron bed, burying her face in her hands. A hot tear slipped down her cheek.
"Mommy, why did the scary man run away?" Clara asked, innocent and oblivious, sitting on the braided rug and playing with her one-eared stuffed rabbit.
"He didn't run away, sweetie," Lily whispered, wiping her eye and forcing a reassuring smile as she pulled her daughter into her lap. "He's just... a very busy man. And we need to be very quiet and polite while we stay here, okay? Mommy needs this job so we can pay for your medicine and find a little apartment of our own."
Clara nodded solemnly, wrapping her small arms around Lily's neck. "Okay, Mommy. I won't talk to the tall man anymore. But his eyes looked sad, like mine when I dropped my ice cream."
Lily froze. Sad? The head of the most feared mafia syndicate on the East Coast, a man rumored to crush his enemies without blinking, looked sad? She shook her head, dismissing the thought. Children imagined things. Yet, as she looked out the window at the looming gray sky, she couldn't shake the heavy, suffocating weight that seemed to press down on every brick of the Moretti estate.
Downstairs, inside his private study, Alessandro Moretti sat behind a massive mahogany desk that had belonged to his grandfather. The room was dark, lit only by the amber glow of a single brass desk lamp.
In front of him sat the small white espresso cup with the thin blue rim. He wasn't drinking from it. His large, calloused hands were gripping the edge of the wood so tightly his knuckles were stark white.
“Daddy... Can I hold your hand just once?”
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The echo of that high, sweet voice ricocheted inside his skull, tearing open scars he had spent years sewing shut. He stood up abruptly, knocking his leather chair backward onto the Persian rug. He paced across the room, his breath coming in ragged, uneven gasps. He walked to the high arched window, staring out into the misty rain.
He hated weakness. He hated ghosts. Most of all, he hated that for one brief, agonizing second in the foyer, when that little girl had reached out her tiny hand, a dead part of his soul had violently jerked back to life.
