Chapter 2 - The Kitchen's Ghost
The manor’s basement kitchen smelled of toasted yeast, rosemary, and the damp river stone of the original foundation. It was a cavernous space where giant copper cauldrons hung from iron racks, and the only sound was the rhythmic thud of a chef’s knife against an oak chopping block.
I held Sophie’s small hand in mine as we walked down the spiral iron staircase. Two of my personal bodyguards, dressed in tailored charcoal suits with earwigs coiled behind their necks, stayed at the top of the landing. When the heavy wooden doors swung open, the warmth of the roaring woodstove hit our faces.
At the center island, a woman in a flour-dusted apron was kneading dough. Her shoulders were hunched, her dark hair pulled back into a severe knot. She was young—no older than thirty—but fatigue had carved deep purple crescents beneath her eyes, and her knuckles were swollen from cold tap water and relentless labor.
"Mom," Sophie called out softly.
Anna Reyes spun around, wiping her floury hands on her apron. The moment her brown eyes flicked from her daughter to me, the color drained completely from her face. She dropped the dough scraper; it clattered loudly against the stainless-steel prep table.
"Mr. Moretti," she gasped, her voice trembling as she immediately dropped into an awkward, terrified bow. "Sophie—my God, Sophie, what did you do? Mr. Moretti, please forgive her. She knows she is never allowed in the main gardens. I swear to you, she won't bother you again—"
"Anna. Stop," I said, keeping my voice firm yet remarkably level.
She froze mid-apology, her chest heaving beneath her white apron. She looked between me and her daughter, her eyes darting to my right hand, which still held Sophie's small, warm fingers. In the world I ruled, when Dante Moretti came down to the service quarters personally, it usually meant an execution order had been signed.
"Sophie didn't bother me," I said, stepping forward. I pulled out a heavy oak chair from the staff dining table. "Sit down."
"Sir, I have seventy loaves to bake before noon—"
"The bread can wait. Sit."
Anna swallowed hard and pulled the chair out, sinking onto the very edge of the cushion as if ready to bolt at the first sign of violence. Sophie ran to her mother’s side, throwing her thin arms around Anna's waist. Anna stroked her daughter's hair with a hand that shook like an autumn leaf.
"Your daughter came to my terrace," I began, folding my arms across my chest. "She offered me three dollars and a music box. She wanted to buy your freedom from a ghost."
Anna gasped, her hand instinctively flying to her mouth. She looked down at Sophie with a mixture of heartbreak and terror. "Sophie... baby, what did you say?"
"I told him the truth, Mom," the little girl said, her jaw setting with that same stubborn resolve I had seen in the garden. "The man is mean. He makes you cry. Mr. Moretti has guards with guns. He can make him stop."
"Anna," I said, stepping closer until my shadow fell across the prep table. "How much do you owe, and who is collecting it?"
"It’s... it’s nothing, Mr. Moretti," she stammered, tears finally spilling over her dark eyelashes. "It’s a private matter. An old family debt from before I came to work here. I can handle it. I swear on my life, it has nothing to do with your household."
"Do not lie to me in my own house," I said, the temperature in the room dropping instantly. "A man calls you every night at nine o'clock. He knows your shift schedules. He knows when Sophie walks through the security checkpoint for her school bus. That means he sits at my table, or he wears my colors."
Anna began to weep quietly, burying her face in her hands. "He told me if I ever spoke your name to anyone, or if I went to the police, Sophie wouldn't make it to the end of the block. He said... he said Mateo stole something twelve years ago. Something that belonged to your organization. He said the interest on the stolen crate was two hundred thousand dollars, and if I didn't pay five thousand a month, he’d take Sophie to an overseas brothel to work it off."
A cold, white rage seized the back of my neck. In the Moretti family, our hands were stained with blood—we ran docks, controlled freight, and handled high-stakes logistics—but we had three absolute, unbreakable laws: We did not touch children, we did not sell women, and we did not poison our own well.
"Has he used a name?" I asked.
"No," she sobbed. "He uses a scrambler. His voice sounds like grinding metal. But... but two weeks ago, he dropped an envelope into my locker in the staff locker room. The lock wasn't broken. He had the master key."
Only five people in the entire compound carried master keys to the inner service quarters: myself, the estate steward Julian, the captain of my personal security Leo, and my underboss, Marco Vane.
Marco had been my right hand for twelve years. We had bled together in the trenches when my father’s empire fell apart. He was Sophie's age when our families first joined forces.
"Where is the music box, Sophie?" I asked, turning to the child.
Sophie held it out immediately. Anna reached out to stop her, but I was already taking the small cedar box into my palms. It was warm from the child's body heat.
"Mateo carved this himself," Anna whispered, her voice hollow. "The night before he died at the docks. He came home covered in grease, kissed Sophie while she was asleep in her crib, and handed this to me. He said, 'If anything happens to me, don't sell it. Keep it until Sophie is grown. It has our future inside.' The next morning, the harbor police fished his body out of the slip."
I ran my thumbs over the swallow carved into the lid. The swallow was the symbol of the old Genoese sailors—it meant safe harbor, the promise of returning home after a storm. But as my thumb traced the bird’s wing, I felt a microscopic ridge beneath the lacquer.
The wood wasn't solid. It was a dual-chambered lock box.
"Anna," I said, looking her directly in the eyes. "Starting right now, you and Sophie do not leave the third-floor guest suites. My personal guard, Gabriel, will stand outside your door. You do not answer the telephone. You do not speak to the maids, the groundskeepers, or my lieutenants."
"Mr. Moretti... please, if he finds out—"
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"He won't find out," I cut her off, my voice steady as an iron beam. "Because tonight at nine o'clock, when that telephone rings, I will be the one holding the receiver."
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