Chapter 3 - Shadows of the Fourth Floor
By ten o'clock that evening, the Moretti estate was bathed in shadow.
Outside, the November storm had finally arrived in full force, driving freezing rain against the heavy leaded-glass windows facing Central Park. High winds howled through the bare trees, but inside the mansion, the air was warm, thick with the scent of old wood, beeswax polish, and fresh coffee.
In the second-floor service parlor, Mia lay fast asleep on a plush velvet sofa, wrapped in a warm wool blanket that Rosa, the elderly cook, had secretly brought her. Her stuffed bear, Biscuit, was tucked under her chin, and her red-and-white stethoscope rested on the table beside her.
Elena sat on the edge of the sofa, watching her daughter’s chest rise and fall. Her hands were still trembling faintly.
“He didn't fire you?” Rosa asked softly, stepping into the room with two mugs of hot tea.
“No,” Elena whispered, taking a mug gratefully. “Rosa... who was the little boy? The one in the pictures downstairs?”
Rosa’s face went pale. She glanced nervously toward the hallway before sitting down beside Elena.
“You must never speak of him,” Rosa warned in a low, hushed whisper. “His name was Leo. Mr. Moretti’s only child. He died five years ago when he was just five years old.”
Elena’s heart ached. As a mother, the thought of losing Mia was an unbearable nightmare. “How did it happen?”
“Leukemia,” Rosa said softly. “It took him in three months. Mrs. Moretti had passed away during childbirth years earlier, so Leo was everything to Antonio. After the boy died, the Dawn changed. The life left his eyes. He locked the fourth floor, banned music and laughter from this house, and became the cold shadow you see today.”
Rosa reached out, gently touching Mia’s soft hair. “In five years, no child has set foot in this mansion. When Mr. Moretti saw Mia today... I thought he would destroy everything. But instead, he moved you upstairs.”
Elena looked down at her tea, remembering the haunted, terrified look in Antonio’s slate-gray eyes when Mia had whispered to him. What did my daughter say to him?
Meanwhile, on the third floor, the atmosphere was far less peaceful.
In Antonio’s massive, wood-paneled study, Damen Moretti paced back and forth across the Persian rug like a caged tiger.
“Are you out of your mind, Antonio?” Damen snapped, slamming his hand down on the mahogany desk. “You’re keeping a random maid and her kid inside the master wing? Do you know what Costa’s men would do if they found out you have soft spots in this house?”
Antonio sat behind his desk, swirling two fingers of amber scotch in a crystal tumbler. He hadn't touched a drop of it.
“She’s a widow, Damen,” Antonio said calmly. “Her husband was a construction worker who died in Queens two years ago. She has no record, no ties to Red Hook, and no political leverage.”
“I don't care if she’s a saint!” Damen argued, leaning over the desk. “Costa is moving twenty armed men into the Twenty-Third Street Pier as we speak! He’s looking for any sign of weakness in the Moretti family. For five years, you’ve run this city because everyone knows you have nothing left to lose. A man with nothing to lose is invincible. But a man who starts letting housekeepers and toddlers warm up his estate is a man who can be broken!”
Antonio’s eyes flashed with a sudden, lethal darkness that made Damen instantly back up two steps.
“Nobody breaks me, Damen,” Antonio said, his voice dropping into a register that made the windowpanes vibrate. “And nobody tells me who walks through my front door.”
Damen swallowed hard, adjusting his leather jacket. “Fine. But I’m placing two extra guards on the rear gates tonight. If Costa moves on Red Hook, we fight tomorrow.”
“Let him try,” Antonio murmured.
After Damen left the study, the silence returned to the third floor—heavy, suffocating, and absolute.
Antonio stood up. He reached into his vest pocket and pulled out a heavy, ornate brass key. It was cool against his palm, worn smooth from years of sitting untouched in his safe.
He walked out of his study, his footsteps silent as he walked past the grand staircase.
Instead of turning toward his bedroom, he walked toward the narrow service stairwell at the end of the hall—the stairs that led up to the fourth floor.
He mounted the steps slowly, every step feeling like a mile.
When he reached the fourth-floor landing, the air was noticeably colder. Dust motes floated in the dim moonlight filtering through the skylight above. At the end of the long corridor stood the heavy oak door.
Antonio walked up to it. He raised his hand, holding the brass key inches from the keyhole.
His hand shook violently. His pulse hammered in his ears.
“The little boy in the dark room upstairs told me to tell you he left his green dragon under the bed...”
Antonio closed his eyes, a ragged, painful breath escaping his throat.
He couldn't do it.
He lowered his hand, gripping the key tightly in his fist until the metal bit into his skin. He backed away from the door, turning to retreat back down the stairs.
As he turned, his foot brushed against something soft lying on the top step of the service stairs.
Antonio looked down.
Lying on the dark carpet was a tiny, brightly colored object that didn't belong in his world of ghosts.
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It was a tiny, pink-and-yellow shoe bow that had fallen off Mia’s sneaker earlier that morning.
Antonio crouched down and picked up the delicate piece of ribbon. He held it in his rough, calloused palm, staring at it for a long, quiet moment in the dark.
