Chapter 3 - The Shadows of the Estate
The private medical wing on the east side of the Moretti estate looked more like a high-tech surgical unit in a private Manhattan hospital than a room in a residential house. State-of-the-art monitors hummed quietly, casting a pale blue glow over Ethan’s bed.
I sat on a wooden stool beside his pillow, watching the slow, rhythmic rise and fall of his chest. His color had returned, but his legs remained completely motionless under the heavy white duvet.
“He’s awake,” a quiet voice spoke from the doorway.
I turned to see Dr. Vance, a sharp-eyed woman in her late forties with graying hair tucked into a neat bun, holding an electronic chart.
Ethan’s eyes fluttered open. He looked around the room in confusion before his gaze landed on me. A faint, weak smile broke through his pale face.
“Lily,” he whispered, his voice dry.
I reached out and gently held his small hand. His fingers were warm now. “Hey, kiddo. How are you feeling?”
“I can’t feel my toes,” he said, his voice trembling slightly. “Is... am I going to walk again?”
Dr. Vance stepped closer, placing a comforting hand on the boy’s shoulder. “The swelling on your spinal cord is severe, Ethan. We’ve started you on high-dose anti-inflammatory treatment. It’s too early to say anything definitive, but you have the best team in the country working on you.”
Ethan looked at me, panic lingering in his eyes. “They grabbed me when my driver stopped at the gas station, Lily. It wasn't a stranger. It was someone who knew our schedule.”
My street-honed survival instincts immediately flared up. Living on the streets teaches you to read body language in a split second—the angle of a head, a sudden pause in breath, a micro-expression of guilt.
Just then, the heavy door of the medical suite clicked open. Two men walked in.
The first was Silas, Vincent’s second-in-command—a towering man in his fifties with silver hair, a tailored charcoal suit, and a calm, calculating demeanor.
The second was Paul, the head of the Moretti family’s private security detail. Paul was younger, built like a brick wall, with short-cropped hair and twitchy, restless hands.
“Boss wants a progress report, Doctor,” Silas said smoothly, stepping to the foot of the bed. “How is the young master?”
“Stable,” Dr. Vance replied. “Resting.”
While Silas spoke with the doctor, I noticed Paul’s eyes scanning the room. He didn't look at Ethan with concern or relief. He looked at the medical monitors, then glanced at me with a cold, sharp flicker of irritation. His left hand repeatedly tapped against his leather holster—a nervous habit of someone carrying a heavy secret.
“Who are you?” Paul asked, turning his sharp gaze down onto me. His tone was laced with casual contempt. “The homeless girl from the park?”
“Her name is Lily,” Ethan snapped from the bed, his small voice suddenly firm. “And she saved my life, Paul. Where were you when my car was ambushed?”
Paul’s jaw tightened. A flash of dark emotion crossed his face before he quickly masked it with a respectful nod toward Ethan. “I was securing the south perimeter, young master. We are sweeping the city for the cowards who touched you.”
“Make sure you sweep close to home,” I said quietly, not breaking eye contact with Paul.
The room fell completely silent.
Silas turned his sharp gray eyes toward me, raising an eyebrow. “What are you implying, little girl?”
“I’m not implying anything,” I replied smoothly, standing up from my stool. “I’m just saying that on the streets, when a dog gets bitten, it’s usually by the stray it let into its own alley.”
Paul stepped forward, his massive frame towering over me, a dangerous glint in his eyes. “You’d better watch your tongue, street trash. You’re only here because the boss has a soft spot for charity.”
“That’s enough, Paul,” Silas commanded, his quiet voice carrying an absolute weight that instantly made the security chief back off. Silas looked at me with a new level of scrutiny, his eyes calculating every word I had just spoken. “Miss Lily is under Mr. Moretti’s personal protection. Remember your place.”
As Paul backed out of the room, his eyes lingered on me with pure, unadulterated hatred.
May you like
My heart hammered against my ribs, but I didn't blink. I had survived cold, hunger, and violence in the dark alleys of New York. I knew a predator when I saw one.
And Paul wasn't just a security chief. He was a snake waiting for the right moment to strike.
