Chapter 3 - The Shadow Behind the CurtainMaya’s instinct screamed at her to turn around, run down the stairs, and pretend she had never left her room. In the Castellano estate, seeing things you weren't meant to see was a shortcut to a shallow grave in the woods.
Yet, as she stared at the trail of blood, another memory flashed in her mind: Duke’s trembling leg, the raw fear in the dog’s eyes when the metal lead clicked, and the silent, heavy loneliness that seemed to follow Vincent through every room he entered.
Gripping the wooden handle of her duster like a pathetic weapon, Maya took a slow step forward.
"Who's there?" she whispered, the words dying in the vast, echoing silence of the library.
No answer. Only the faint whistling of the winter wind rattling the reinforced glass of the balcony doors.
She reached out, her fingers trembling as they brushed against the heavy velvet curtain. With a sharp tug, she pulled it back, flashing her light into the small alcove.
Empty.
The balcony door stood slightly ajar, letting in a bitter gust of midnight air. Outside on the stone railing, fresh snow had been disturbed—someone had climbed down or jumped. But what caught Maya’s eye wasn't the footprints in the snow. It was a small, silver cufflink lying on the window sill, catching the pale glow of the moon. It bore an intricate crest—not the Castellano family crest, but the unmistakable insignia of the Moretti syndicate, Vincent’s most violent and ruthless rivals.
"You have a habit of finding things that don't belong to you, Maya."
The voice came from the dark doorway behind her. Maya jumped, spinning around so fast she dropped her flashlight. It rolled across the floor, its beam cutting erratically across the ceiling before dying out in the corner.
Vincent stood in the entrance, silhouetted by the dim hallway sconces. He wasn't wearing his overcoat; he wore a crisp white dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his forearms, revealing lean, corded muscle and a faint, jagged scar across his left wrist. He looked dangerous—not like a corporate executive or a wealthy heir, but like a man who knew exactly how to dismantle a human being with his bare hands.
"I... I was told to clean the lower shelves, sir," Maya stammered, hating the tremor in her voice. "I didn't mean to—"
"Pick it up," Vincent interrupted quietly, cutting through her excuses.
"Sir?"
"The cufflink," Vincent said, taking a slow, deliberate step into the room. "I know it's there. I saw the light catch the silver from the hall."
Maya swallowed hard, bending down to retrieve the small piece of metal. She straightened up, holding it out on her open palm. Vincent didn't take it immediately. He stopped a foot away from her, towering over her, his dark eyes searching her face with an intensity that felt X-ray deep.
"Do you know what happens to people who find Moretti property in my house, Maya?" he asked, his voice dangerously low.
"They usually don't live long enough to explain how it got there," she whispered back, surprising even herself with her steadiness.
May you like
Vincent looked at her for a long, agonizing moment. Then, slowly, a faint, humorless smile touched the corner of his mouth.
"True," he murmured, taking the cufflink from her hand. "Which is why I have to decide right now whether to lock you in the cellar... or keep you very close where I can watch you."
