Chapter 4 - A Whisper in the Dark
Sleeping in a king-sized bed with Egyptian cotton sheets should have been heaven. Instead, it was torture.
After eight months of sleeping on concrete, my body didn't know how to relax on a soft mattress. Every creak of the floorboards, every rustle of the wind outside the double-paned glass windows set my nerves on edge. At 2:00 AM, I gave up on sleep entirely.
I threw on a black velvet robe from the closet and slipped silently out of my suite.
The halls of the Moretti estate were dim, lit only by low-voltage nightlights installed near the baseboards. The mansion was quiet, save for the faint hum of the central heating system.
I navigated toward the grand library on the ground floor, hoping to find a book or a quiet corner to clear my head. As I approached the heavy mahogany doors, I noticed a sliver of light spilling out from the cracked doorway.
I stopped in my tracks, flattening myself against the cold stone wall.
A voice spoke from inside the library. It was low, tense, and muffled.
“...I told you, the girl was a wild card! Nobody expected a homeless brat to be hiding behind the dumpster with a working phone.”
My breath caught in my throat. It was Paul.
I crept closer, pressing my ear near the crack of the door.
“Vincent is tearing the city apart,” Paul continued into his phone, his tone filled with desperate panic. “He’s already executed two of the Falcone syndicate’s street lieutenants in Queens. If he finds out the coordinates came from my terminal, he’ll skin me alive!”
A pause as the person on the other end of the line responded.
“No,” Paul hissed. “The kid is paralyzed. He can’t identify the guys who grabbed him, but he knows the driver slowed down before the attack. We have to finish this before the kid starts talking to the doctors. The winter gala is in two days. The entire Moretti high council will be at the Plaza Hotel. That’s our window.”
My blood ran colder than the ice in Central Park.
The winter gala. It was the Moretti family’s annual high-society event—a massive gathering where Vincent showcased his political and business dominance over the city. Paul was planning an inside hit to wipe out Ethan and take down Vincent in one fell swoop, hand over the empire to the rival Falcone syndicate.
I backed away slowly, my heart hammering like a drum against my ribs.
Crack.
The heel of my slipper caught the edge of a small brass floor runner.
The conversation inside the library stopped instantly.
“Who’s out there?” Paul’s voice boomed, followed by the heavy, hurried sound of his boots marching toward the door.
Panic surged through me. There was no time to sprint back down the long corridor to my room.
Acting on pure instinct, I ducked into the narrow recessed alcove behind a marble statue of Apollo just as the library door swung wide open.
Paul stepped into the hallway, a sleek black pistol drawn and leveled at chest height. He scanned the dim corridor, his chest heaving, his eyes burning with lethal suspicion.
He took three slow steps toward the alcove where I crouched, his boots clicking softly on the floor.
I held my breath, squeezing my eyes shut, pressing my body flat against the cold stone base of the statue.
Suddenly, a quiet voice echoed from the far end of the hallway.
“Is there a problem, Paul?”
Vincent Moretti stood at the top of the marble staircase, dressed in a black silk robe, holding a glass of amber scotch. His dark eyes were cold, assessing, cutting through the shadows like searchlights.
Paul instantly lowered his weapon, tucking it behind his back with practiced speed. “No, Boss. Just... checking the perimeter. Thought I heard a noise.”
Vincent walked down the steps slowly, his gaze sweeping over the hallway before fixing entirely on Paul.
“You seem nervous lately, Paul,” Vincent said softly, taking a slow sip of his drink. “Ever since my son was brought home.”
“I’m just stressed, Mr. Moretti,” Paul stammered, a slick sheen of sweat appearing on his forehead. “We failed to protect Ethan. I won't let it happen again.”
“No,” Vincent replied, his voice dropping an octave into a register of terrifying calm. “You won't.”
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Vincent turned and looked directly toward the marble statue of Apollo. He paused for a long second, as if he knew exactly who was hiding behind the carved stone, before turning back to Paul.
“Go to sleep, Paul. We have a gala to prepare for.”
