Chapter 2 - The Ghost of the East Wing
The silence in the grand hallway was suffocating. Outside, the autumn rain beat relentlessly against the reinforced stained-glass windows of the Moretti estate, but inside, the only sound was Sophia’s muffled sniffling as she buried her face deeper into my shoulder.
Alessandro stared at the back of the photograph for three full seconds—an eternity in the world he inhabited. Then, with a flick of his wrist, he slid the picture into his inner suit jacket pocket.
“Luca,” he said, his voice dropping an octave into a tone that promised absolute destruction.
“Boss?” Luca stepped forward instantly.
“Pull the security feeds from Vernon Street for the past ninety-six hours. Check every traffic camera, every private ring doorbell, every storefront lens within a four-block radius of the market. I want a name, a face, and a license plate by midnight.”
“On it,” Luca replied, spinning on his heel and marching down the east wing toward the security annex.
Alessandro turned his piercing gaze back to me. His eyes softened just a fraction as they drifted to Sophia, who peeked out from behind my hair with tear-stained cheeks.
“Elena,” he said quietly, his voice losing its razor edge. “Take her down to the main kitchen. Have Mrs. Gable make her some hot chocolate and honey toast. Stay there until I come for you.”
“Mr. Moretti—who was that? Why does someone have pictures of us?” My voice shook uncontrollably, the terror finally breaking through my professional composure. “We live in a small apartment three miles from here. I just clean houses! I don't know anything about your world, I swear to God—”
“I know you don't,” Alessandro interrupted, cutting me off with a gentle firmness that shocked me. He stepped closer, towering over us, his expression grim. “Which is precisely why you are no longer safe walking out those front gates. From this moment on, you and your daughter do not leave this estate until I find out who is playing games in my city.”
Before I could argue, before I could demand to grab my belongings and run back to our modest, ordinary life, Alessandro turned and strode down the hall toward his private study, slamming the heavy oak door behind him.
For the next four hours, the cavernous mansion felt less like a workplace and more like a gilded cage.
Mrs. Gable, the elderly head cook who ruled the subterranean kitchens with an iron spoon and a heart of gold, fussed over Sophia like a doting grandmother. She fed her hot chocolate loaded with miniature marshmallows, baked fresh cinnamon toast, and handed her a massive plush teddy bear that looked like it cost more than my monthly rent.
“Don’t you fret, child,” Mrs. Gable whispered to me while Sophia happily colored with crayons at the massive oak prep table. “The boss is a hard man, yes. But he honors his debts. If he said you’re safe here, then nobody in this city dares touch a hair on your head.”
“Who do you think was in the room, Mrs. Gable?” I asked, leaning against the marble counter, my hands still trembling around my mug of tea. “The room upstairs... with the child's bed and the red shoes.”
Mrs. Gable’s face instantly drained of color. She stopped wiping the counter, her hands resting heavily on the sponge.
“You shouldn’t go poking around in ghosts’ business, Elena,” she murmured softly, looking around the empty kitchen as if the walls had ears. “Four years ago, before the empire expanded, before the blood wars on the docks... Alessandro had a little girl. Her name was Mia. She was four years old—just a year older than your sweet girl.”
A cold shiver crept up my spine. “What happened to her?”
“A rival faction sent a message,” Mrs. Gable said, her voice dropping to a harsh whisper. “They didn't just target Alessandro; they targeted his family while he was away negotiating a port treaty. A car bomb outside a private clinic. Mia and her mother didn't survive.”
The horrifying puzzle pieces slammed together in my mind. The untouched bed. The rocking horse. The tiny red shoes with their laces still tied. It wasn't just a room; it was a mausoleum. A shrine frozen in time by a broken father who refused to let go of the ghosts haunting his soul.
“And the door...” I whispered. “It was never supposed to be unlocked.”
“It never is,” Mrs. Gable sighed, shaking her head. “Only one person in this entire estate has a key to the east wing besides the boss himself. And he hasn't stepped foot down that hallway in four years.”
Before I could ask who she meant, the heavy kitchen doors swung open.
May you like
Luca stood in the frame, his expression grim, dark shadows under his eyes. He looked at me, then at Sophia, who was busy coloring a pink-and-blue butterfly on a napkin.
“Elena,” Luca said quietly. “The boss wants to see you in the study. Now.”
