Chapter 4 - Whispers in the West Wing
The morning after the gala, the sun pierced through the tall arched windows of the Moretti master suite, casting long, golden geometric patterns across the Persian rugs.
Naomi stood by the window, wrapped in a plush silk robe, sipping black coffee. Below, the iron gates of the estate were surrounded by reporters and camera crews, desperate for a glimpse of the maid who had overnight become the most talked-about woman in Manhattan.
A pair of strong arms wrapped around her waist from behind, and a heavy chin rested softly on her shoulder.
"They're going to camp out down there for a week," Luca murmured, his morning voice deep and gravelly against her neck.
"Let them," Naomi said, leaning back into his warmth. "They can't get past the security perimeter. Besides, I have more important things to worry about."
"Oh? Like what?" Luca kissed the side of her jaw.
"Like your mother's breakfast," Naomi smiled, turning around within his embrace. "Isabella's favorite tea is Earl Grey with a drop of honey, and she expects me in the music room by nine. Being engaged to the head of the Moretti family doesn't excuse me from my duties."
Luca chuckled, his dark eyes softening with a look he reserved strictly for her. "My mother already sent a message through her nurse this morning. She played three low notes in a row on the piano. Do you know what that means?"
Naomi’s eyes widened playfully. "Three low notes? That means 'About time, you stubborn idiot.'"
"Exactly," Luca laughed, pulling her closer. "Even when she can't speak, she runs this house."
Later that morning, Naomi walked down the familiar corridor toward the music room. The heavy oak door stood wide open. Inside, Isabella sat comfortably in her cushioned armchair by the window, the morning sunlight catching her silver hair. On the piano bench, the sheet music lay open.
As Naomi entered, Isabella turned her head, a warm, knowing smile touching her lips. She raised a frail hand and tapped twice against the armrest—her old shorthand for welcome.
"Good morning, Isabella," Naomi said softly, setting the tea tray down on the side table.
Before Isabella could reply, a sharp knock echoed at the open doorway. Rocco stood there, his face expressionless, holding a secure encrypted tablet.
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"Boss needs you in the study immediately, Miss Carter," Rocco said. "It's about the Bellini family's latest movement."
Naomi frowned, exchanging a quick look with Isabella. The old woman’s fingers twitched against her lap, pressing down once in a slow, deliberate rhythm—a low note. Go see.
