Chapter 2 - THE HIDDEN PHOTOGRAPH
The silence in the master bedroom was heavy, thick with electric tension.
Adrien’s knuckles were bone-white against the leather armrests of his wheelchair. His torso strained forward, muscles flexing in a desperate, ferocious show of will that shocked every man standing in the room.
The two guards froze in place, looking nervously between Adrien and Vincent. In eleven months, no one had seen Adrien Moretti order guards away with such cold, deadly focus.
"I said," Adrien repeated, his voice low, gravelly, and laced with undisputed authority, "do not touch her. Step back."
Vincent’s face flushed a mottled red. He adjusted the cuffs of his Italian suit jacket, trying desperately to regain control of the room.
"Adrien, you’re not thinking clearly," Vincent sneered, taking a step toward the bed. "She’s a maid. She’s been loitering in your private quarters all night. She’s tracking your medical history without authorization. That is a security breach for the entire Moretti syndicate."
"She was here on my orders," Adrien growled, his dark eyes fixed on his cousin. "Which means if you have a problem with her presence, Vincent, you have a problem with me."
Vincent scoffed, though his eyes darted nervously to the small black notebook sitting on the bedside table. "You're sick, Adrien. You're letting a pretty face distract you from syndicate business. The council is meeting in two days to discuss the port distribution routes. You can't even manage your own household staff."
"The council will wait for me," Adrien replied coldly. "And my staff answers to me. Not to you."
Clare stood up slowly from her chair. Her heart was hammering against her ribs, but her expression remained completely unreadable. She smoothed down her plain gray apron, looking directly at Vincent.
"If my shift is over, Mr. Moretti," Clare said quietly to Adrien, deliberately ignoring Vincent, "I will go prepare your morning tea."
"Go," Adrien said, his tone softening slightly as his gaze shifted to her. "Leave the notebook."
Clare nodded once. She picked up her canvas tote bag from beside the chair, set it on the table for a fraction of a second to adjust the strap, and stepped past the two intimidated guards. Vincent watched her go, his eyes narrowed into razor-sharp slits of suspicion.
"This isn't over, Adrien," Vincent muttered. "She's dangerous. You don't know anything about her."
"I know she doesn't lie to me," Adrien spat. "Out. All of you."
Vincent motioned for the guards to follow him, slamming the heavy mahogany door behind them.
Once the room was silent, Adrien leaned back against his pillows, breathing heavily. The sheer exertion of holding his upper body rigid had drained his strength, but the fire inside his chest was hotter than it had been in nearly a year.
He looked down at his left foot beneath the sheet. He concentrated with every ounce of his soul. A tiny, faint tremor rippled through his quad muscle.
It wasn't a miracle yet. But it was proof. He wasn't completely dead below the waist.
His gaze drifted to the table. In her haste to step around the guards, Clare’s tote bag had caught on the sharp corner of the bedside lamp. The zipper had snagged and pulled open, revealing a dark leather flap beneath a pile of cleaning cloths.
Adrien wheeled himself closer to the bed. He reached out and gently pulled the bag toward him, intending simply to zip it shut so she wouldn't spill her belongings later.
As he shifted the heavy canvas, a thick manila envelope slipped out of an interior pocket, spilling its contents onto his lap.
Adrien froze.
On his lap lay a glossy five-by-seven photograph, yellowed slightly around the edges.
It was a photograph taken twelve years ago at the Moretti family’s private estate in Sicily.
In the center of the frame stood a young, smiling Adrien, flanked by his father, Don Vittorio Moretti, and his older brother, Julian.
But it wasn't his family that made Adrien’s breath catch in his throat.
Standing on the far left side of the photograph, holding the hand of a little girl with bright, solemn brown eyes, was a man named Arthur Bennett.
Arthur Bennett had been Don Vittorio’s chief financial auditor—the man who had vanished twelve years ago along with forty million dollars of syndicate assets and a ledger containing every political bribe the Moretti family had ever made.
Adrien slowly picked up the photo. He turned it over.
Written on the back in fresh, precise handwriting was a single sentence:
The accident was not an equipment failure. Look for the silver seal.
Adrien felt the blood drain from his face.
The girl in the photograph—the little seven-year-old child holding Arthur Bennett’s hand—had the exact same solemn brown eyes as Clare.
May you like
Clare Bennett wasn't just a maid who had applied through a local employment agency.
She was the daughter of the man who had ruined his father. And she had entered the most dangerous mansion in the state carrying a secret that could get them both executed before nightfall.
