Chapter 3 - The Ghost in the Hall
Morning in the Moretti mansion arrived without warmth.
Sunlight sliced through the high arched windows, revealing the quiet perfection of a home where no one actually lived. Servants moved like phantoms, polishing silver without making a sound, vanishing behind hidden service doors before anyone could look them in the eye.
Leo woke up with his fingers tangled in my sweater. When he realized where he was, he didn't scream. He looked up at me with enormous hazel eyes—eyes that belonged entirely to his father—and whispered one word:
"Hungry."
"Let's go find breakfast, little bird," I smiled, lifting him out of bed. He felt miraculously light, too thin for a boy his age.
I dressed him in a simple navy blue sweater and cotton pants, ignoring the stiff, formal linen shirts Mrs. Greco had laid out on the dresser. Children were meant to breathe, not pose for oil paintings.
We walked down the long corridor toward the ground floor. As we passed an alcove framed in black marble, Leo stopped dead.
He gripped my hand tightly and pointed.
There, hanging beneath a single spotlight, was a portrait of Elena Moretti.
She was breathtaking. Pale porcelain skin, raven-black hair falling in soft waves over bare shoulders, and eyes the color of winter frost. She wore emeralds around her throat and smiled the cold, untouchable smile of European nobility.
"Mama," Leo whispered, his voice trembling.
"She is very beautiful, Leo," I murmured gently.
"She went to the sky," he said, repeating words someone had fed him to explain an incomprehensible horror. "The car went boom, and Mama flew to the sky."
A chill ran down my spine. *The car went boom.*
The media had reported that Elena Moretti died in a tragic single-vehicle accident during a winter storm. But in the underworld Ricardo ruled, cars didn't just crash. They were detonated.
"She is at peace now," I said softly, crouching down to his level so I could block his view of the cold canvas. "And she loves you very much. Every time you smile, she sees it."
"She didn't like messes," Leo said matter-of-factly, looking down at his shoes. "I spilled juice on her dress, and she yelled. Then she went away."
My chest tightened with sudden fury. The boy believed—deep in his three-year-old logic—that his mother had died because he was messy. Because he wasn't good enough.
"Listen to me, Leo," I said, holding his chin gently so he couldn't look away. "Your mother leaving had nothing to do with juice. It had nothing to do with you being bad. You are wonderful. You are good. Do you hear me?"
"Miss Bennett."
The deep voice behind me was laced with cold authority.
I stood up and turned. Ricardo stood there, dressed in a charcoal three-piece suit, an espresso cup in his hand. His expression was completely blank, but there was an electric tension in the air between us.
"We do not discuss Elena in the hallways," he said.
"He needs to discuss her," I countered before I could stop myself. "He thinks he caused it."
Ricardo's jaw ticked. His gaze flicked to his son, who had tucked himself behind my legs, peeking out timidly.
"Come here, Leo," Ricardo commanded.
Leo didn't move. He held tighter to my trousers.
Ricardo stared at the boy, a flash of genuine hurt piercing through his stoic mask before his face hardened once more. He looked at me, his eyes dark with a mixture of resentment and gratitude.
"Breakfast is served in the south dining room," Ricardo said curtly. "Afterward, take him to the garden. He has spent too many months indoors."
"Yes, Mr. Moretti."
As he turned to leave, he paused. "And Clara?"
"Yes?"
May you like
"You don't wear a uniform here. Wear whatever allows you to run. Because in this house, when things move, they move fast."
***