Chapter 6 - A Mother’s Shield
Up in the sprawling east wing of the Moretti estate, the heavy scent of lavender and old polish filled the air.
Lydia Hayes stood by the floor-to-ceiling bay window, looking out over the manicured lawns and stone courtyards of San Rocco. She wore a soft, comfortable cashmere sweater that had been brought up from the family’s private wardrobe reserves—clothing that had once belonged to Elena, tailored to fit with quiet dignity.
Behind her, nine-year-old Clara was sitting cross-legged on a massive, feather-soft king-sized bed, surrounded by sketchpads, colored pencils, and a collection of vintage fairy tales she had pulled from the room’s built-in library.
The door opened softly, and Dominic walked in.
He had removed his suit jacket, his crisp white dress shirt open at the collar, sleeves rolled up. He looked tired—not with the physical fatigue of a normal man, but with the heavy, crushing weight of a king who had just rooted out a cancer that had been eating away at his house for nearly a decade.
Lydia turned from the window, instantly bowing her head. "Mr. Moretti... you shouldn't have troubled yourself to check on us. The guards have already brought us everything we could possibly need."
Dominic walked further into the room, stopping a few feet away from her. "You are safe here, Lydia. That is not trouble; that is an obligation."
Clara looked up from her sketchpad, holding out a drawing in her small hands. "Mr. Moretti? Look. I drew the music box."
Dominic walked over to the bed, taking the paper from her hands. It was a remarkably detailed sketch for a nine-year-old—the dark walnut grain, the mother-of-pearl flowers, and the broken brass angel leaning on the cylinder.
"You have a gift, Clara," Dominic said, a genuine, soft smile touching his face. "Your mother tells me you spend all your free time drawing in the back of the laundry room."
"I like making things look pretty," Clara said simply, her dark eyes shining. "Because the service wing is always so gray."
Dominic’s smile faded slightly, replaced by a quiet pang of guilt. For six years, this little girl and her mother had lived in the gray margins of his empire while monsters in silk gowns walked his halls.
"That gray is gone, Clara," Dominic promised quietly.
He handed the drawing back to her, then turned his attention to Lydia.
"Lydia, there is something I need to ask you," Dominic said, his tone turning serious. "The night Elena died... nine years ago. You were working the late shift in the kitchens, weren't you?"
Lydia’s breath hitched. She lowered her gaze, her hands clutching the fabric of her skirt. "Yes, sir. I was... I was cleaning the scullery when the ambulance sirens started in the courtyard."
"Did you see anything unusual that night?" Dominic pressed gently. "Anyone coming or going from the private residential wing?"
Lydia hesitated, her eyes darting nervously toward the floor before she forced herself to look up into Dominic’s slate-gray gaze.
"I... I didn't want to say anything at the time, Mr. Moretti," Lydia whispered, her voice trembling. "Because I was just a new maid, and everyone was terrified of Miss Vivian. But... about an hour before the doctors were called, I saw Miss Vivian walking down the back service stairs. She was carrying a small glass vial, washing it out in the utility sink with boiling water. Her hands were shaking. And she was smiling."
May you like
Dominic closed his eyes. The last lingering doubt in his mind evaporated, replaced by the bitter, scorching clarity of truth.
"Thank you, Lydia," Dominic murmured, his voice thick with emotion. "For nine years, I lived in the dark. You and your daughter just turned on the lights."
