Chapter 6 - The Visitor in the East Wing
The storm broke over Lake Minnetonka on Wednesday night, driving sheets of freezing rain against the grand reinforced windows of the Moretti estate. Inside, the east wing penthouse was a sanctuary of warmth, plush velvet furniture, and quiet security.
Elena sat at the mahogany dining table, helping Sophie with a coloring book while a pot of chamomile tea steamed beside them.
A soft knock at the private elevator foyer interrupted them.
Elena froze, her hand hovering over a box of crayons. Since moving into the penthouse, nobody visited them except the personal security detail delivering meals or checking the perimeter locks.
“Stay here, Sophie,” Elena whispered, standing up and smoothing down her gray maid’s uniform—now tailored from finer fabric, a quiet perk of her new status.
She walked cautiously to the foyer door and peered through the brass peephole.
Standing in the hallway, wearing a heavy wool coat soaked with rain, was a woman with sharp, aristocratic features, piercing dark eyes, and silver-streaked hair pulled back into an immaculate bun. It was Isabella Moretti—Adrien’s estranged aunt, the matriarch of the old guard who lived in self-imposed exile in Chicago and rarely set foot in the Minnesota compound.
Elena unlocked the door immediately, pulling it open and bowing her head. “Signora Moretti. I didn't know you were arriving tonight—”
Isabella stepped past her without a word, her heels clicking sharply against the hardwood floor. Her gaze swept the luxurious penthouse with cold, critical appraisal before landing on Sophie, who sat quietly at the table, clutching her ragdoll.
“So,” Isabella said, her voice like dry autumn leaves rustling over gravel. “This is the little stray my nephew has brought into the family fortress. The maid’s daughter.”
Elena stepped defensively in front of the table, her maternal instincts flaring up. “Signora, please. She’s just a child—”
“I am well aware of what she is,” Isabella interrupted, raising a gloved hand to silence her. She walked slowly toward Sophie, stopping two feet away. She looked down at the little girl, her eyes narrowing as she took in Sophie’s calm, unblinking stare.
Sophie didn't cower. She tilted her head, exactly as she had done with Adrien, and held out the frayed ragdoll.
“He’s wet,” Sophie said simply. “Your coat is wet. You should sit by the fire.”
Isabella stared at the child, a flicker of something unreadable—perhaps surprise, perhaps old sorrow—crossing her stern features. She slowly pulled off her leather gloves, dropping them onto the nearby table.
“You have your father’s eyes,” Isabella murmured, though whether she meant Adrien or someone else remained entirely unclear.
Before Elena could ask what she meant, the private elevator chimed, and the heavy doors slid open.
Adrien strode into the penthouse, his dark coat damp from the rain, his expression thunderous. He had been monitoring the Marseille surveillance feeds from his study when his security sensors alerted him to an unauthorized override on the east wing elevator matrix.
“Aunt Isabella,” Adrien said, his voice dropping an octave as he stepped between the matriarch and the table. “You make a habit of dropping in unannounced during a tempest.”
Isabella turned to face her nephew, her chin held high, unimpressed by his intimidating aura. “Someone had to come, Adrien. While you’re playing childish games with dummy data feeds and Vanguard spies, you’re missing the bigger picture.”
May you like
Adrien’s jaw tightened. “Explain yourself.”
“The Vanguard isn't just listening to your nursery, Adrien,” Isabella said, stepping closer, her voice dropping to a harsh, urgent whisper. “They didn't plant that device to steal shipping routes. That was just the bait. They planted it because they know what is hidden beneath this estate—and they are coming for your children to get it.”
