Chapter 5 - Whispers in the Wall
Leaving Lorenzo alone in the master closet with Emma was the hardest thing I had ever done in my life.
“Emma,” I whispered, kneeling before my daughter in the shadows. “Mama has to go get medicine for the hurt man. You stay right here beside him. Do not make a sound. Do not open this door. If anyone other than Mama opens this door, you crawl into the laundry chute behind the hamper, like we practiced. Understand?”
Emma clutched her stuffed rabbit, her lower lip trembling. But she looked at Lorenzo, who reached out and placed his heavy, burning hand gently on top of her head.
“I’ll watch over her, Elena,” Lorenzo whispered, his voice barely audible. “With my life.”
I swallowed the lump in my throat, straightened my maid’s uniform, smoothed down my apron, and stepped out into the hallway.
The mansion was awake.
The scent of expensive lilies and funeral wreaths drifted through the vaulted corridors, mingling with the smell of strong espresso and gun oil. Men in dark suits stood at every intersection, their jackets unbuttoned, earpieces humming with static.
I kept my head down, holding an empty silver tea service tray against my chest like a shield.
“Hey! You!” a voice barked from behind me.
I froze, my stomach dropping into my shoes.
I turned around slowly, adopting the submissive, timid posture I had used for two years to survive as an invisible cleaner in this den of monsters.
It was Marco.
His eyes were bloodshot, his tie loosened. He looked exhausted, stressed, and volatile.
“Have you seen the head housekeeper?” he demanded, stepping closer.
“She… she was down in the kitchen, sir,” I said, keeping my voice small and trembling. “Checking the breakfast service for the guests.”
Marco looked at me, his gaze sweeping over my uniform. For a terrifying second, his eyes lingered on a tiny smudge of dried mud on the hem of my apron—mud from the potting shed floor.
“What’s your name?” he asked, stepping into my personal space.
“Elena, sir.”
“You work the upstairs rooms?”
“Yes, sir. Third floor guest suites.”
Marco squinted, reaching out a hand toward my shoulder. “Where were you last night during the alarm?”
“I was in the staff quarters over the garage with my daughter, sir,” I lied without missing a beat, looking directly into his cold eyes. “We were terrified. We locked the door and prayed until dawn.”
A tense silence hung between us for five unbearable seconds.
Then, a radio clipped to his shoulder squawked: *“Marco! Dante just arrived at the front gate. He brought thirty cars. He’s demanding to see the Don’s body before he steps inside.”*
Marco cursed under his breath, completely forgetting about me. He tapped his earpiece. “Hold him at the courtyard! Tell him Vittoria is waiting in the library!”
He spun on his heel and sprinted down the grand marble staircase.
I exhaled a shuddering breath, my knees nearly buckling beneath me.
I didn't waste a second. I slipped down the servant’s corridor toward the north wing infirmary.
The door was locked with an electronic keypad, but I had cleaned this room a dozen times. The code had never changed: the year Lorenzo’s father established the family business.
*1-9-5-2.*
The lock clicked green. I slipped inside and closed the door behind me.
The room was immaculate—a miniature trauma bay equipped with stainless steel tables, surgical lights, oxygen tanks, and locked glass cabinets filled with pharmaceuticals.
I grabbed a medical canvas bag and began tearing through the shelves.
*Ceftriaxone vials. Sterile saline IV bags. IV starter kits, butterflies, and tubing. Lidocaine 2%. Sterile suture kits. Scalpels. Heavy compression dressings.*
I packed everything into the bag, adding several ampoules of concentrated epinephrine and broad-spectrum oral antibiotics.
Just as I zipped the bag shut, I heard voices outside the window.
The infirmary looked out onto the private courtyard behind the library.
I crept toward the blinds and peered out.
A massive, silver-haired man in a bespoke three-piece suit was standing near the stone fountain. He had the build of a retired heavyweight boxer and the cold, unblinking eyes of an ancient king.
Dante.
Surrounding him were a dozen of his own men, their hands resting noticeably on the lapels of their coats. Across from them stood Vittoria, flanked by Marco and eight heavily armed guards carrying submachine guns beneath their raincoats.
“You’re telling me he drowned?” Dante’s voice carried through the double-paned glass—deep, resonant, and entirely unconvinced. “Lorenzo was a competitive swimmer in the Navy. You expect me to believe he fell into a creek and washed out to the sound?”
“He took two bullets to the chest, Dante!” Vittoria replied, her voice breaking with masterfully faked grief. “He was bleeding to death! He fell from the footbridge trying to escape the ambush!”
“Whose ambush, Vittoria?” Dante asked, taking a step forward. His men shifted with him in unison. “Because my scouts picked up three Moretti vehicles leaving the northern perimeter an hour before your men even called the alarm.”
Vittoria’s face tightened. The mask of grief slipped for a fraction of a second, revealing the calculating monster beneath.
“Are you questioning my integrity, Dante?” she asked coldly. “In my father’s house? On the day of my brother’s death?”
“I’m questioning why you’re sitting in the Don’s chair before we’ve even dragged the river for his bones,” Dante shot back. “Until I see Lorenzo’s body with my own eyes, nobody takes the oath of succession. Not you. Not the Morettis. Nobody.”
He turned on his heel and marched toward the main entrance, his security detail falling into a defensive formation around him.
Vittoria watched him walk away.
She turned to Marco, her expression completely devoid of humanity.
“Kill him,” she said quietly. “During the memorial service in the chapel. Make it look like a Moretti drive-by. When Dante is dead, the West Side crews will have no choice but to accept my leadership.”
I backed away from the window, my heart hammering like a machine gun against my ribs.
They weren't just going to bury Lorenzo.
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They were going to massacre his entire loyalist command structure inside the family chapel.
***
