Chapter 3 - The Ghost in the Kitchen
By 4:00 PM, the master bedroom looked almost respectable, save for a few stray Batman comics wedged behind the radiator.
The boys had retreated to their playroom to debate whether my threat of a frozen turkey constituted a violation of the Geneva Conventions, leaving me alone to navigate the labyrinthine corridors of the Moretti estate in search of caffeine.
The kitchen was commercial-grade—stainless steel counters that gleamed under recessed lighting, industrial refrigerators, and an espresso machine that looked like it belonged on the bridge of a nuclear submarine. But despite its size, it felt utterly devoid of warmth. There was no clutter on the counters, no half-finished coffee mugs, no fingerprints on the chrome. It was a kitchen designed by someone who ate to survive rather than to live.
I was spooning loose-leaf Earl Grey into a porcelain strainer when the swinging door hissed open.
It wasn't one of the triplets.
A woman stood in the doorway. She was in her late fifties, wearing a crisp black housekeeper’s uniform with a white lace collar that looked like it had been starched with liquid iron. Her hair was pulled back into a severe French twist, and her eyes were fixed on me with a mixture of profound skepticism and reluctant awe.
“Mrs. Gable,” I said, recognizing her from the foyer when the ice-water baptism had occurred.
“You’re still breathing,” she noted, stepping into the kitchen and setting a tray of freshly sliced fruit on the counter. Her voice was like dry leaves scraping across concrete.
“Miracles do happen. Do you know where Mr. Moretti keeps the honey?”
Mrs. Gable pointed a bony finger toward the pantry without looking. Then, she crossed her arms over her chest, leaning against the island counter. “In thirty-two years of service to the Moretti family, I have seen twenty-eight nannies come through those front doors. Seventeen cried within the first hour. Five locked themselves in the panic room downstairs. One tried to smuggle a silver candelabra out in her overnight bag.”
“And where do I rank?” I asked, pouring boiling water over the tea leaves.
“You haven't wept yet,” Mrs. Gable said dryly. “Though give it time. Mr. Moretti is a very difficult man to share airspace with, even when he isn't brooding over his shipping manifests.”
“He looks like a man who hasn't slept since 2018,” I remarked, leaning against the counter and taking a slow sip of the tea. The bergamot hit my palate, sharp and comforting.
“His wife died four years ago,” Mrs. Gable said quietly, the harshness in her voice softening just a fraction. “An aneurysm while driving. She took the car off a county road into a ravine. The boys were in the backseat. They survived without a scratch, but their mother didn't.”
The tea suddenly felt heavy in my stomach.
I thought of Lily—just six years old, laughing as she chased pigeons in our cramped Queens courtyard. I thought of Daniel, his hand warm and calloused as he held mine in the hospital room before his heart simply decided to stop beating.
Grief, I realized. That’s what’s haunting this house.
It wasn't just wealthy isolation or criminal stress. It was four broken men—one grown, three miniature—living in a mausoleum of memories they were too terrified to touch.
“And Adrian?” I asked softly. “Does he talk to them?”
“He provides,” Mrs. Gable said, her tone hardening again as if she had revealed too much. “He pays for the best schools, the best doctors, the best security. But a man who builds walls for a living doesn't know how to take them down for his own children. He looks at those boys and sees the last thing his wife touched before she drove into the dark.”
Before I could answer, the kitchen door swung open once more, and Adrian Moretti walked in.
He had removed his suit jacket; his white dress shirt was unbuttoned at the top, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, revealing strong, lightly scarred forearms. He stopped dead in his tracks when he saw me standing across the island from Mrs. Gable, a half-empty mug of tea in my hand, chatting like we were old college roommates.
Adrian’s dark eyes flicked from the housekeeper to me. “Mrs. Gable, shouldn't you be inspecting the guest wings?”
“I was merely acquainting Miss Donovan with the estate’s culinary infrastructure, Mr. Moretti,” the older woman replied smoothly, dipping her head in a polite nod before turning and exiting through the pantry service door with silent efficiency.
Adrian watched her go, then turned his intense, suffocating gaze back onto me.
“You’re still here,” he said, as if he expected me to evaporate the moment he looked away.
“Of course I’m still here. We have a contract, Mr. Moretti. Forty-eight hours minimum, or I don't get the twenty grand. And trust me, my landlord is much scarier than your triplets.”
Adrian narrowed his eyes, stepping closer to the island. He smelled of rain and cold air—he must have stepped outside onto the terrace to smoke a cigar or clear his head. “What were you discussing with Mrs. Gable?”
“Old times,” I lied smoothly. “She was telling me about your shipping routes. Fascinating stuff. Lots of grey areas.”
Adrian didn't smile. He placed both palms flat on the stainless steel counter, leaning in just enough to invade my personal space. “Watch your step, Claire. You might think you’ve charmed the boys into a temporary truce, but this house will chew you up and spit you out by midnight. You don't belong in my world.”
May you like
I didn't back down. I held my ground, leaning across the counter until our faces were barely a foot apart. I could see the tiny silver specks in his dark gray irises—flecks of cold light trapped in deep water.
“Your world?” I whispered, letting a sharp, humorless smile touch my lips. “Mr. Moretti, I’ve spent the last four years raising a six-year-old on a grocery store clerk’s salary while dodging eviction notices and mourning a dead husband. Your little underworld empire is amateur hour compared to the New York City rental market. Try again.”
