Chapter 2 - Echoes in the Dark
The heavy oak doors of the third-floor suite closed with a definitive click, sealing Sophia away in a golden cage. Downstairs, the silence of the Moretti mansion was deafening, suffocating every corner of the grand estate.
Aleandro stood by the window in his private study, staring out at the rain starting to slick the driveway. The liquid in his glass was untouched. Every instinct honed over fifteen years as the Moretti Don told him something was deeply wrong, but the wound in his chest blunted his sharp judgment. Seventy thousand dollars transferred out. A stranger with a gray streak in his hair. The card with the black dot.
A gentle knock rustled at the heavy mahogany door.
"Enter," Aleandro barked.
It was Victor. He stepped into the room with his typical calm demeanour, holding a leather folder under his arm. "The accounts have been traced further, Aleandro. The money was wired through offshore channels—specifically tied to an old syndicate hub in Chicago. It’s dirty money, boss."
Aleandro turned slowly. "Did you find out who the gray-haired man was?"
"Not yet," Victor said smoothly, placing the folder on the desk. "He vanished like a ghost. But Sophia's silence speaks volumes. She’s protecting someone from that region. Could it be an old flame? An accomplice?"
Aleandro’s eyes darkened. "Sophia had no past before me. You vetted her yourself three years ago."
"People change when old debts come due," Victor murmured, his tone laced with tragic regret. "I suggest we restrict her access entirely. Do not let her speak to anyone, including the household staff. We cannot risk an leak while the council meets next week."
Meanwhile, on the floor below, small footsteps padded down the grand hallway. Four-year-old Emma clutched her drawing notebook tightly to her chest, her small knees trembling as she crouched behind a marble statue near the third-floor stairs. She saw the guards stationed outside Sophia’s door—two heavy-set men with guns tucked into their jackets.
Emma remembered the look in Miss Sophia's eyes when the gray-haired man had touched her hand. It wasn't love. Emma knew what love looked like; it was how her mother, Clara, tucked her in at night. What she had seen under that table was the way a bird looks at a cat.
Emma slipped through the shadows toward the back servants' stairs, where Clara was ironing linens in the quiet utility room.
"Mommy," Emma whispered, tugging at Clara's apron.
Clara gasped, pulling her daughter into her lap and checking the hallway. "Emma! You shouldn't be wandering around tonight. Mr. Moretti is angry."
"The mean man in the suit," Emma whispered, pointing up toward the study. "He spoke to the gray-haired man in the garden before the party. I saw them from the kitchen window."
May you like
Clara’s heart stopped. "What did you say?"
"The silver-haired man—Mr. Victor," Emma insisted, her innocent eyes wide. "He gave the gray-haired man the little card with the black spot."
