Chapter 6 - The Secret in the Rose GardenWhile the east wing echoed with the silent, brutal mechanics of power, a different kind of quiet enveloped the servants' quarters at the back of the estate.
Clara packed a single canvas duffel bag with trembling hands, folding Mia’s few cotton dresses and placing the one-eyed stuffed rabbit carefully on top. Every creak of the old house sounded like an executioner's step. Her heart hammered against her ribs like a trapped bird.
"Mommy?"
Clara gasped, dropping a pair of socks as she spun around.
Mia was sitting up in the narrow cot, rubbing her heavy eyes with the back of her small hand. The moonlight cut through the window panes, painting silver bars across the wooden floorboards.
"Shh, sweet girl," Clara whispered, rushing over and sweeping the toddler into her arms, burying her face in the soft curls of Mia's hair. "We need to get dressed. We're going on a trip."
"Are the bad men gone?" Mia asked, her small fingers clutching the frayed ear of her stuffed rabbit.
"They're gone, baby. Everything is going to be okay." Clara forced a brave, breaking smile, though her eyes were swimming with fresh tears.
Suddenly, a soft scratch echoed at the door.
Clara froze, her breath catching in her throat. She backed toward the corner, shielding Mia with her own body. Was it Moretti's men? Had the trap failed?
The door clicked open slowly.
It wasn't an assassin. It was Gianni. And behind him, standing tall and silent in the doorway with his shadow stretching across the room, was Lorenzo Duca.
The blood had dried on Lorenzo's knuckles, dark and faint under the dim hallway light, but his expression was remarkably calm—the calm of a man who had just cleaned house and washed his hands of the mess.
"The car is waiting by the greenhouse," Lorenzo said, his deep voice carrying an effortless authority. "Gianni will take you to the coast house. You'll have guards, provisions, and a new identity before dawn."
Clara stared at him, bewildered and terrified. "Why are you doing this, Mr. Duca? You don't owe us anything."
Lorenzo stepped into the room, his dark gaze lingering for a moment on the little girl peering out from behind Clara's shoulder with wide, curious brown eyes.
"When I was six years old," Lorenzo said quietly, his voice dropping into a register so low it was almost lost to the wind, "my father locked me in a cellar for three days because I dropped his pocket watch. No food. No light. Just rats and my own breathing."
Clara’s breath hitched.
"Nobody opened that door for me," Lorenzo continued, his eyes hardening like obsidian. "And from that day on, I swore that no child in my house would ever have to wonder if the dark was coming to eat them."
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, heavy silver medallion engraved with the Duca crest—a coiled viper eating its own tail. He didn't give it to Clara; instead, he knelt down on one knee, holding it out to little Mia.
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The toddler didn't hesitate this time. She leaned forward, her tiny fingers wrapping around the cold silver coin.
"If anyone ever knocks on your door," Lorenzo told the little girl, his voice impossibly gentle, "show them this. And tell them the dog sent you."
