Chapter 3 - The Ghost of the Past
Moving out of the damp, subterranean servant’s quarters and into the east library suite felt like stepping into an alternate dimension. The room featured towering mahogany bookshelves, a plush velvet king-sized bed, a private fireplace that crackled with dry cedar logs, and floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the snow-choked pine forests of the estate.
Yet, I couldn't sleep.
At 2:00 AM, a soft tap sounded at my heavy oak door. When I opened it, Viktor stood there, holding a secure encrypted tablet.
"Mr. Moretti requests your presence in the private study," Viktor said neutrally. "The Zurich medical team has arrived, and old Mr. Moretti is currently undergoing a full neurological mapping."
I threw on a thick wool cardigan over my maternity pajamas and followed Viktor down the long, dimly lit corridors of the mansion. The estate felt completely different tonight. The oppressive, toxic atmosphere generated by Mrs. Gable and her cronies was gone, replaced by a tense, militaristic precision. Armed guards stood at every major intersection, and the hum of high-tech diagnostic equipment echoed faintly from the ground-floor medical wing.
When I entered the study, Lorenzo was standing by the massive stone fireplace, holding a crystal glass of amber scotch. Giovanni was resting comfortably in a motorized, state-of-the-art reclining wheelchair, his chest rising and falling with a steadier rhythm. A Swiss neurologist in a crisp white coat was packing up a laptop nearby.
"Well, Doctor?" Lorenzo asked without turning around.
"It is fascinating, Mr. Moretti," the neurologist spoke in a crisp European accent. "Your father’s motor neurons were never entirely dead. They were suppressed. Decades of chronic stress, heavy doses of unprescribed sedatives administered over the last five years, and complete psychological isolation created a chemical prison. But his cognitive pathways are remarkably intact. In fact, given intensive physical therapy and targeted neuro-stimulation, he may regain limited speech within six months."
Lorenzo took a slow sip of his scotch, his eyes reflecting the orange flames of the fire. "Sedatives? You’re telling me someone was intentionally drugging him to keep him paralyzed?"
"The blood panels confirm it," the doctor nodded. "A low-dose barbiturate cocktail. Just enough to keep his voluntary muscle control sluggish and suppress vocalization, but not enough to show up on standard routine checks unless specifically targeted."
A cold, dead silence filled the room.
Lorenzo turned around, his face a mask of carved granite. The fury in his eyes wasn't loud or chaotic; it was cold, focused, and utterly lethal.
"Mrs. Gable," Lorenzo whispered, more to himself than anyone else. "And who authorized her employment here five years ago?"
Giovanni suddenly shifted in his chair. With an agonizing effort, he raised his left hand—the one that still worked with some coordination—and pointed a crooked finger directly at the ornate mahogany desk in the corner of the study. Then, he tapped his temple twice, and let his hand drop heavily onto the armrest, exhausted.
Lorenzo walked over to the desk. It was securely locked with an antique brass keyhole. Without hesitation, Lorenzo pulled a small pocket knife from his trousers and jammed the tip into the mechanism, forcing the lock with a sharp, metallic crack.
Inside the drawer was a hidden compartment containing a stack of old leather-bound journals, bank statements, and a sealed envelope bearing a familiar, elegant monogram: A.M.
May you like
My breath hitched. A.M.
"Aurelia Moretti," Lorenzo murmured, his voice dropping an octave as he pulled out a marriage certificate dated six years prior. "My dear, sweet, recently deceased stepmother."
