Chapter 3 - The Inventory of Secrets
Mrs. Costa brought up a tray of soft white bread, warm milk, and sliced pears. She set it down on the mahogany table near the window without making eye contact. Her face was pale, her fingers trembling slightly as she adjusted the napkin.
"Mrs. Costa," I called out softly as she turned to leave.
She stopped, her hand hovering over the doorknob. "The master is busy, Maya. You should rest."
"What happened last night? Why was I scrubbing the second study? The schedule said the room was deep-cleaned on Tuesday."
Mrs. Costa didn't turn around. Her shoulders were rigid beneath her black wool dress. "Orders change. A shipment arrived late from the docks. Something broke. A bottle of vintage wine, or... something else. You clean what you are told to clean, child. You do not ask whose blood stains the Persian rug."
"Whose blood was it, Mrs. Costa?"
The older woman turned slowly, her eyes wide with a terror I had never seen in her before. "Last night, while you were unconscious on the floor, someone searched your locker in the staff quarters. They didn't steal your money. They didn't steal your phone. They took the spare key to the north gate."
The bread in my hand felt heavy, like a stone. "The north gate? That leads straight down to the cliffs."
"And directly to the rival syndicate waiting in the cove," Mrs. Costa whispered, stepping closer. "Someone in this house is selling information to the Moretti family. They know about the girl. They know you are here. And if Lorenzo finds out the key came from your locker, he won't just fire you—he will feed us both to the tides."
Emma was playing quietly with her rabbit, completely unaware of the shadow falling across the room. I looked down at the child, realizing with a sickening jolt of fear that Lorenzo Duca wasn't just our employer; he was our only shield against a slaughterhouse.
"Who has access to the staff lockers?" I asked.
"Everyone," Mrs. Costa replied. "And no one."
At 11:55 AM, I stood outside the heavy oak doors of Lorenzo's primary study. My legs were still weak, but adrenaline coursed through my veins like ice water. I smoothed down my borrowed black skirt, took a deep breath, and raised my hand to knock.
Before my knuckles touched the wood, the door swung open.
Lorenzo stood there in a crisp white shirt, his sleeves rolled up to his forearms—and once again, his hands were completely bare.
The scars running across his palms and fingers were intricate, pale, and web-like, telling a silent story of violence, survival, and old power. He didn't look at my face; his dark eyes dropped straight to my hands.
"You are shaking," he noted, stepping aside to let me enter.
"I have reason to be," I said, walking into the dimly lit study filled with towering bookshelves and the smell of aged leather and cigar smoke. "Someone stole the key to the north gate from my locker last night."
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Lorenzo closed the door with a heavy, final click. He turned around, resting his lean hips against the edge of his massive mahogany desk.
"I know," he said calmly. "Because I found the key in your pocket when I carried your daughter upstairs."
