Chapter 2 - THE MIDNIGHT EMBERS
The corridors of the Moretti estate in Chicago were quiet at 12:15 A.M., save for the muffled hum of central heating and the steady, heavy footsteps of Murphy Moretti.
Murphy walked with a controlled, predatory stillness. In his left arm, he carried three-year-old Lily, whose small hands clutched a threadbare plush rabbit against her chest. Her tiny toes were cold against his tailored wool vest, her tear-stained face buried in the crook of his neck.
In his right hand, Murphy held a sleek tactical flashlight, its beam cutting through the gloom of the east wing’s servant quarters.
Two steps behind him walked Dr. Jonathan Hayes, the family’s trusted private physician, carrying a heavy leather medical bag. Behind Dr. Hayes stood Dante, Murphy’s chief of security, his hand resting on the holster beneath his suit jacket.
"This is the room," Murphy spoke, his deep baritone barely above a whisper.
He pushed open the heavy oak door to Room 104—a small, modest suite reserved for temporary domestic staff.
Lying motionless on the hardwood floor beside an unmade bed was Clara, Lily’s twenty-four-year-old mother. She had been hired three weeks ago under the name Clara Vance to manage the estate’s private linen inventory.
Dr. Hayes dropped to his knees beside Clara immediately, pulling a stethoscope and a portable blood pressure cuff from his bag.
"Her pulse is thready, Don Murphy," Dr. Hayes muttered, his fingers pressing against Clara’s neck. "Severe dehydration, acute malnutrition, and a dangerously low blood pressure reading. She hasn't eaten a full meal in days."
Murphy stood over them, his dark eyes tracking every detail of the room. "Check her arms, Jonathan."
Dr. Hayes gently pulled back the sleeve of Clara’s oversized gray sweater.
Underneath the worn fabric, the doctor gasped softly. Deep, dark rope-like scars circled both of Clara’s wrists—healed tissue stacked over fresh, yellowing bruises. Along her inner forearm were dark purple contusions that formed the undeniable imprint of a man's heavy hand.
Dante stepped closer, his jaw tightening. "Boss... those aren't old injuries from before she came here. Those bruises are less than forty-eight hours old."
Murphy’s gaze hardened into two chips of black obsidian. "Which means whoever put those marks on her is living under my roof."
Lily squeezed Murphy’s neck tighter, her tiny voice trembling. "Mommy said... Mommy said never go to the big man's room. She said if I went to the top floor, the bad men would catch us."
Murphy looked down at the little girl, his expression softening instantly as he adjusted his grip to support her weight.
"If she told you to stay away from my room, Lily... why did you come to my door tonight?" Murphy asked gently.
Lily pointed a small, shaking finger toward the corner of the room near the closet. "Because the shadow man came out of the wall while Mommy was sleeping. He took Mommy’s book and hit her arm. Mommy told me to run and find the king."
Murphy glanced at Dante. "The wall?"
Dante rushed over to the closet, shoving aside the hanging uniforms. He pressed his palm firmly against the rear cedar lining. A faint click echoed through the room as a secret service latch gave way, revealing a dark, hidden narrow passageway built into the estate's original 1920s foundation.
"The old smuggling tunnel," Dante whispered in shock. "Only six people in the syndicate have the security clearance map for this passage."
May you like
Murphy looked down at the unconscious woman on the floor, then at the secret door, realization setting in like a cold iron blade.
"Someone inside my inner circle has been keeping her prisoner in my own house," Murphy growled softly. "Get Jonathan's medical team up to the private wing. Nobody leaves this estate tonight."
