Chapter 3 - Whispers in the West Wing
Night fell over the Moretti estate like a velvet shroud, heavy and suffocating. In the small, comfortable servant’s quarters located in the renovated west wing, Sophia tucked Emma into her narrow bed, pulling the thick wool blanket up to her chin.
"Is Mr. Bruno sleeping outside our door, Mommy?" Emma whispered sleepily, hugging her teddy bear close.
Sophia glanced toward the heavy oak door. Sure enough, through the small gap at the bottom, she could see the silhouette of a massive paw resting flat against the floorboards. The dog had refused to leave their threshold, despite the protests of the night watchmen who walked the corridor.
"Yes, sweetie," Sophia murmured, kissing her daughter’s forehead. "He’s watching over us. Now go to sleep."
As Emma’s breathing slowed and she drifted off into peaceful slumber, Sophia walked quietly to the window, pulling back the heavy velvet curtain to look out over the sprawling estate grounds. The snow was falling again, swirling in ghostly patterns beneath the amber glow of the security lights.
She couldn't shake the events of the afternoon. In a world where men like Alessandro Moretti ruled through fear, blood, and iron-fisted control, compassion was a fatal weakness. Yet, Alessandro had spared them. More than that, he had shown an unsettling level of curiosity.
A soft knock at the door broke the silence.
Sophia froze. It wasn't a guard’s heavy rap; it was a light, deliberate double-knock.
Stepping cautiously away from the window, she crept across the room and turned the brass handle. Standing in the dimly lit hallway was Marco, Alessandro’s chief of security and right-hand man. His broad shoulders filled the doorway, his face carved from granite, a faint scar running from his temple down past his jawline.
"Mrs. Carter," Marco said quietly, his voice like grinding stones. "Mr. Moretti requests your presence in the second-floor library. Immediately."
Sophia’s breath caught. "At this hour? My daughter is asleep—"
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"Mr. Moretti’s requests are not negotiable," Marco interrupted, though there was no malice in his tone—only a grim, immutable finality. "Don't worry about the child. A detail has been posted outside your door. Bruno is already handling perimeter security."
Realizing she had no choice, Sophia grabbed a light cardigan to throw over her shoulders and followed Marco down the long, carpeted corridor. The estate at night felt ancient and alive, the shadows stretching like grasping fingers across the ornate wainscoting and oil paintings of stern-faced ancestors who had built the Moretti empire on violence and intimidation.
