Chapter 4 - Shadows in the East Wing
The clock on the library wall chimed midnight.
The Moretti estate was silent, wrapped in the heavy, expensive stillness that only millions of dollars could buy. Most of the security detail was stationed at the perimeter gates and the main vehicle entrances, leaving the interior corridors quiet and shadowed.
Luca walked softly down the service corridor leading toward the west wing. He wasn't wearing his suit jacket; his white shirt sleeves were rolled up to his forearms, revealing the sharp lines of old scars from a life lived in the violent underbelly of New York.
As he approached the linen storage room near the service stairs, he heard a faint, rhythmic sound.
Scratch. Scratch. Thump.
Luca stopped, pressing his back quietly against the wood-paneled wall. He eased his hand toward the concealed holster beneath his belt, his eyes narrowing.
The door to the linen room was cracked open by an inch. A pale yellow line of light spilled out onto the dark floor.
Pushing the door open silently, Luca stepped inside.
Elena was kneeling on the checkered tile floor, her back turned to him. She was scrubbing the baseboards with a small wire brush, her shoulders hunched under the weight of utter exhaustion. Beside her, curled up on a folded wool blanket in the corner, little Mia was fast asleep, clutching a stuffed rabbit with one missing ear.
Elena’s breathing was ragged. She paused, lifting her hand to wipe her forehead, and a muffled, choked sob slipped past her lips.
She quickly slapped her hand over her mouth, looking around frantically as if terrified someone would hear her crying.
Luca’s chest tightened. He hadn't planned on intervening tonight. He had told himself he would observe, investigate, and handle things through proper channels. But seeing her kneeling there on the cold stone, weeping in secret so she wouldn't wake her sleeping child, broke something fundamental inside him.
“You don't have to finish that tonight, Elena.”
Elena gasped, spinning around so fast she dropped her brush. She scrambled backward against the shelving unit, her eyes wide with sheer panic.
“Mr. Moretti!” she whispered frantically, scrambling to her feet while trying to keep her voice down so Mia wouldn't wake. “I’m sorry, I didn't hear you—I was just finishing the floor, Mrs. Romano said—”
“I don't give a damn what Isabella said,” Luca interrupted, stepping fully into the small room.
Elena shrank back against the shelves, her breath coming in short, terrified gasps. “Please, sir, don't fire me. I need this job. I have nowhere else to go. I won't let Mia wander into the main wing again, I swear to God—”
“Elena, look at me,” Luca commanded, his voice dropping into a low, steady rumble designed to anchor a panicking animal.
She slowly raised her eyes. They were red-rimmed and swimming with tears.
“I am not going to fire you,” Luca said softly.
She blinked, stunned. “You... you aren't?”
“No.” Luca stepped closer, stopping a few feet away so he wouldn't crowd her further. He looked down at her hands. The skin across her knuckles was red and cracked from harsh chemical cleaners, and the dark bruise on her wrist was still faintly visible beneath her rolled-up sleeve. “Why are you so afraid?”
Elena swallowed hard, her throat working convulsively. “People like... people in your world, Mr. Moretti... they don't care about people like me. We’re just background noise until we make a mistake.”
“Isabella told you that?”
“She didn't have to,” Elena whispered, looking down at the floor. “I’ve spent my whole life being background noise. I thought coming out here to Long Island, working for a legitimate family, would keep us safe.”
Luca’s expression darkened. Keep us safe.
The phrase hung in the air like a ghost.
“Safe from what, Elena?” Luca asked quietly.
Elena flinched, her jaw locking tight. She shook her head, refusing to answer. Whatever shadow she was running from, whatever ghost haunted her past, she guarded it with her life.
“You’re hiding from someone,” Luca stated, not as a question, but as an absolute fact.
Before Elena could respond, a sudden, sharp sound echoed down the quiet hallway outside.
Clack. Clack.
May you like
Heels on hardwood.
Isabella Romano’s footsteps were unmistakable.
