Chapter 3 - The Tears of a ServantClara was on her knees in the second-floor gallery, scrubbing a stubborn stain of red wine out of the priceless Persian runner, when the shadows detached themselves from the wall.
She didn't hear them approach. One moment she was alone with her bucket and her racing heartbeat; the next, a pair of polished black oxfords filled her field of vision.
She froze, her knuckles whitening around the wooden handle of the brush. She knew those shoes. Everyone in the house knew those shoes. They belonged to the apex predator of the estate—the man who owned the air they breathed and the ground they walked on.
"Miss Moretti," a voice murmured. It wasn't Lorenzo. It was Gianni, Lorenzo’s chief enforcer, a man whose face looked like it had been carved out of granite and left in a salt mine.
Clara scrambled backward, her breath catching in her throat, spilling soapy water across the red wool. "I-I swear I didn't touch it," she stammered, her voice shaking so violently she could barely form the syllables. "The watch... I swear on my mother’s soul, I never saw it before. Someone put it in my locker. Please, Mr. Gianni, you can search my room, you can search my mattress—take everything we own, just... just don't hurt Mia. Please."
Gianni didn't smile. He reached down, grabbed her firmly by the elbow, and hauled her to her feet with effortless strength.
"The Boss wants a word," Gianni said, his tone devoid of malice, which somehow made it terrifying. "And you're going to walk down there on your own two feet, or I'll carry you. Choose."
Clara didn't fight. She couldn't. Her legs felt like hollow glass. As Gianni steered her down the grand staircase and toward the subterranean depths of the east wing, her mind raced in a panic. She thought of Mia, sitting alone in the small pantry room where she had hidden her, clutching that pathetic stuffed rabbit. If Clara didn't come back, who would feed the child? Who would protect her from the monsters that lived in the daylight?
When the heavy steel door of the basement archive swung open, Clara expected chains. She expected blood on the floor.
Instead, she saw Lorenzo Duca sitting behind a mahogany desk, the harsh desk lamp cutting sharp shadows across his angular jaw. Beside him, sitting on her haunches like a loyal sentinel, was the terrifying black Doberman, watching her with amber eyes.
"Close the door, Gianni," Lorenzo said without looking up.
The heavy steel clanged shut, sealing them in silence.
Lorenzo slowly raised his head. His dark eyes locked onto Clara's pale, tear-streaked face, stripping away her defenses piece by piece.
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"Salvatore Gallo was your father," Lorenzo stated. It wasn't a question. It was an executioner's axe, dropping from the ceiling.
Clara gasped, stumbling backward until her spine hit the cold stone wall. Her eyes widened in pure, unadulterated terror, her chest heaving as the secret she had guarded with her life for a decade was ripped away in a single breath.
