Chapter 4 - Shadows of San Rocco
The private study on the third floor of the Moretti estate was a sanctuary of dark oak, leather, and shadows. A roaring fire crackled in the massive stone hearth, casting dancing golden light across the rows of heavy bookshelves.
At the center of the room sat Dominic Moretti, leaning forward in his leather chair, his elbows resting on his knees.
On the mahogany desk before him sat Elena’s music box.
Lydia and Clara sat quietly on a nearby sofa. Lydia had been given a cup of hot tea by an enforcer, though she hadn't touched it; her hands were clasped tightly in her lap. Clara sat beside her, her eyes wide with fascination as she looked at the oil paintings of stern-looking ancestors lining the walls.
Dominic carefully inserted a delicate micro-screwdriver into the base of the music box, releasing a hidden internal compartment. Inside lay a tiny, vintage magnetic tape spool—the kind used in high-end espionage and private recording devices of the early 2000s.
He slid the spool out, walked over to an old reel-to-reel player resting in the corner of the study, and threaded the tape with practiced, steady fingers.
He flipped the power switch.
For a moment, there was only the low hiss of analog static. Then, Elena Moretti’s voice filled the room, crystal clear, sounding as if she were standing right beside the fireplace.
"Dominic... if you are hearing this, it means I didn't make it. I trusted her. Vivian Mercer was my cousin, my blood. I brought her into San Rocco when she had nowhere else to go. But she didn't want a home—she wanted your empire.
She has been tampering with the ledger books. She has been feeding information to the Rossi syndicate. And tonight... she poisoned my evening tea. I feel it in my chest. My heart is failing. If I die tonight, do not let her convince you it was natural. She wants my place by your side, and she wants our assets.
Protect yourself, my love. And find whoever is truly loyal to you in this house... because the rot is already inside the walls."
The tape clicked off. The reels spun silently in the quiet room.
The weight of the revelation crushed down upon the study like an iron ceiling. For nine years, Dominic had believed his wife died of a sudden, tragic congenital heart defect. For nine years, he had mourned her in silence, blaming himself for working too late, for being too blind, for failing to protect her.
And all along, the woman sitting at his right hand—the woman he had nearly married tonight—was her murderer.
Dominic didn't punch the wall. He didn't curse or shatter a glass. He simply stood motionless by the reel player, his massive frame rigid, his jaw clenched so tightly a muscle ticked violently in his cheek.
The silence stretched on for so long that Clara shifted uncomfortably on the sofa.
"Mr. Moretti?" Clara asked softly.
Dominic turned slowly, his slate-gray eyes softening just a fraction as they landed on the little girl. He walked back over to the desk, pulled open a heavy bottom drawer, and withdrew a sleek, secure satellite phone.
He dialed a single number and put it to his ear.
"Marcus," Dominic said, his voice dropping into a register of pure, lethal ice.
"Boss? I've got Mercer locked in the lower security suite. She’s screaming her head off, demanding a phone call to her senator uncle," Marcus’s voice crackled through the speaker.
"Cancel her calls," Dominic commanded smoothly. "Pull up every financial transaction, property transfer, and communication log connected to Vivian Mercer over the past nine years. Cross-reference every name with the Rossi syndicate."
"Consider it done, boss. What about the wedding?"
Dominic looked down at the scratched wooden music box, then across the room at Lydia and Clara.
"The wedding is canceled," Dominic said quietly. "Prepare the east wing suites. From tonight onward, Lydia Hayes and her daughter Clara are guests of the Moretti family. Anyone who questions that order answers directly to me."
"Understood, boss. On it immediately."
The line clicked dead.
Dominic pocketed the phone and walked back toward the sofa where Lydia and Clara were sitting. He stopped a few feet away, his expression solemn yet resolute.
"Lydia," Dominic said quietly. "You have spent six years cleaning up after people who despised you, hiding in the shadows of a house that forgot you existed."
Lydia looked up, her eyes shining with unshed tears. "We had a roof over our heads, Mr. Moretti. That was enough."
"It wasn't enough," Dominic corrected gently. "And it changes tonight. Marcus will escort you and Clara to the east wing. You will have a proper home, proper clothes, and security that will keep you safe from anyone who ever tries to harm you again."
Clara clutched her battered stuffed rabbit she had managed to smuggle in her sweater pocket. "Does this mean... I don't have to clean the service stairs anymore?"
May you like
A faint, rare smile touched the corners of Dominic Moretti’s mouth.
"No, Clara," Dominic said, looking down at her with quiet pride. "You don't have to clean anything ever again. Your only job from now on... is to be a kid."
