Chapter 3 - Shadows in the Linen Wing
Down in the lower east wing, where the air smelled of bleach, damp cotton, and steam, the atmosphere was thick with panic.
A young woman with dark hair tied back in a messy bun paced frantically beside the industrial ironing tables. This was Marta, Clara’s mother, who had taken a job at the estate three weeks ago to escape debts in the city. She knew the dangers of working for the Moretti family; she had signed the non-disclosure agreements, memorized the prohibited zones, and warned her daughter a hundred times to stay quiet and stay hidden.
And yet, Clara was gone.
When the heavy wooden door of the laundry room swung open, Marta gasped, stumbling backward against a stack of folded sheets.
It wasn't a guard. It wasn't Elena.
It was Alessandro Moretti.
The Don of the city stood in the modest doorway, dwarfing the cramped space. Clara was still asleep, cradled securely against his chest, her thumb tucked into her cheek.
Marta dropped to her knees, trembling so violently she could barely speak. “Signore... please. I swear to you she didn’t mean to. She is only three. She doesn’t know where she is. Take everything I have, punish me, but please don't—”
“Get up,” Alessandro interrupted. His voice was low, devoid of the fury she had expected.
Marta looked up, tears blurring her vision. She expected to see a weapon drawn, or a gesture calling for the enforcers. Instead, Alessandro stepped further into the room and gently lowered the sleeping child onto a narrow cot draped with clean blankets.
Clara stirred, murmuring something unintelligible about a singing clock, before settling back into sleep.
Alessandro straightened his coat, his gray eyes fixing on the terrified mother.
“A child who wanders uninvited through this estate is a liability,” Alessandro said coldly, his words cutting through the humid air like glass. “The perimeter guards have standing orders to shoot first and ask questions later.”
Marta squeezed her eyes shut, a sob escaping her lips.
“However,” Alessandro continued, his gaze lingering on the smear of garden dirt still visible on Clara’s cheek, “she is remarkably persistent. She climbed an oak tree, bypassed three armed sentries, and found me asleep.”
Marta opened her eyes, stunned.
“She stays in the east wing quarters with you,” Alessandro instructed, his tone turning crisp and authoritative. “From now on, her movements are restricted to the inner courtyard. If she wanders again, you will both be packing your bags before nightfall. Do I make myself clear?”
“Yes, Signore,” Marta whispered, pressing a hand to her chest. “Thank you. Thank you.”
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Alessandro turned on his heel and walked out into the corridor, but as the heavy door closed behind him, a cold realization settled in his mind. Someone had let the child reach the west lawn. The guards’ logs showed no breaches. The cameras had a blind spot right where the oak tree stood.
And blind spots in the Moretti estate were never accidental.
