Chapter 3 - The Shadow in the Study
The sharp, metallic click of the door lock echoed through the silent study like a gunshot.
Panic, cold and absolute, surged through my veins. I had less than two seconds.
I shoved the medical folder back into the cabinet, turned the brass key, dropped it back into the top desk drawer under the marble paperweight, and dropped to my hands and knees beside the bookshelf, grabbing a microfiber cloth I had stashed in my pocket.
The heavy door swung open.
A tall, broad figure stepped into the room, silhouetted against the amber light of the corridor.
It was Enzo Moretti.
He wasn't wearing his tailored suit jacket. His white dress shirt was unbuttoned at the collar, sleeves rolled up to his forearms, revealing dark tattoos creeping up his wrists. In his right hand, he held a half-empty glass of amber scotch.
His dark eyes swept the room, freezing instantly when they landed on me crouched by the bottom shelf.
"What are you doing in here?" his voice boomed, low, smooth, and laced with immediate, lethal threat.
I kept my head bowed, forcing my hands to tremble visibly as I clutched the yellow dusting cloth against my chest.
"I... I'm so sorry, Mr. Moretti," I stammered, raising my eyes just enough to look terrified—which wasn't difficult to fake. "I dropped my cleaning rag in here during my afternoon shift. I couldn't find it earlier, and I was worried Mr. Marco would dock my pay if I lost supplies."
Enzo didn't move. He stood perfectly still in the doorway, staring down at me with the cold, calculating glare of a predator evaluating prey.
"At two in the morning?" he asked softly.
"I couldn't sleep, sir," I whispered, shrinking back against the leather-bound books. "I was afraid to ask during the day. I know I'm not supposed to bother you."
Slowly, Enzo stepped into the room, his heavy leather shoes making no sound against the thick Persian rug. He walked over to the desk, his eyes never leaving my face. He set his scotch glass down on the mahogany surface—right beside the paperweight I had just moved.
My heart was beating so hard against my ribs I was certain he could hear it.
He reached down, opening the top right drawer.
My blood ran cold. Had I put the key back in the exact same spot? Was the paperweight misaligned by a millimeter?
Enzo reached into the drawer, but he didn't grab the key. He pulled out a silver cigar lighter, flicked the flame to life, lit a dark cigar resting in the crystal ashtray, and slowly snapped the lighter shut.
"You're very jumpy, Clara," he said, blowing a thin plume of blue smoke toward the high ceiling.
"I... I'm just nervous, sir. I really need this job."
"Marco checked your background," Enzo continued, leaning his hip against the desk, crossing his arms over his chest. "Clara Hayes. Grew up in upstate New York. Worked retail, then hotel housekeeping in Albany. Clean record. Quiet woman."
"Yes, sir."
"You don't look like a hotel housekeeper," Enzo said, his dark eyes searching my face with uncomfortable intensity. "Your hands aren't calloused enough. And when you look at my daughter, you don't look at her with pity like the other servants do. You look at her like you're trying to solve a puzzle."
The observation hit me like a physical blow. I had worked so hard to hide my medical knowledge, but my basic human instincts had betrayed me.
"She's a sweet girl, Mr. Moretti," I said carefully, choosing every word as if walking across a minefield. "She reminds me of... of my younger cousin. It breaks my heart to see her trapped in that chair."
Enzo’s posture stiffened instantly. The subtle warmth in his eyes vanished, replaced by an icy wall of mafia authority.
"I told you on your first day, Clara," he said, his voice dropping an octave. "Do not pity my daughter. And do not analyze her. Her condition is permanent. I have paid three million dollars to the best neurological minds in North America to confirm that fact."
"Of course, Mr. Moretti. I'm sorry."
He gestured toward the open door with his cigar. "Get out. Go to your room. If I find you wandering this house after midnight again, Marco will escort you off the property. And you won't like where he drops you off."
"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir."
I scrambled to my feet, bowing my head, and hurried past him out into the corridor.
As I walked away, I felt his gaze burning into my back until the study door clicked shut behind me.
May you like
I had survived the encounter, but I was running out of time. Enzo trusted his high-priced doctors. He trusted the three-million-dollar diagnosis.
If I was going to save Sophia from being permanently crippled by the very people paid to care for her, I needed undeniable, physical proof.
