Chapter 2 - Inside the Vault
The walk down the east wing felt twice as long in the dark. The grand chandeliers overhead were dimmed to a bruised amber, casting long, skeletal shadows across the Persian rugs. Every turn of the corridor seemed to draw Sophia deeper into a tomb. When Marco stopped before the towering mahogany doors of the study, he didn't knock. He simply pressed his palm against the heavy wood, nudged it open just enough for her to pass, and remained outside in the shadows like a stone gargoyle.
The room smelled of stale bourbon, expensive cigar smoke, and old paper. The fire in the hearth had burned down to a bed of glowing, dying embers, casting a flickering, blood-red light across the room.
Lorenzo Moretti sat behind his massive desk. He was not reading the manifests. His sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, exposing the thick, pale scars that webbed his forearms—reminders of a war he had fought and won long before Sophia ever stepped foot in Chicago. He did not look up immediately. He let her stand there in the center of the vast, intimidating space, letting the silence press down on her chest until her lungs ached.
"You speak Italian?" he asked suddenly, his voice cutting through the quiet like a switchblade.
"No, sir," Sophia answered, keeping her hands clasped tightly in front of her to hide their shaking.
"Good. It saves translation." Lorenzo finally raised his gaze. His eyes were the color of winter river ice—hard, deep, and entirely unreadable. "Your background check says you came from New York three years ago. Husband dead. No family. Clean record, aside from a minor debt you paid off within a week of arriving."
Sophia’s stomach plummeted. "I’ve given honest service, Mr. Moretti. I haven't broken any rules—"
"Your daughter did," he said, cutting her off flatly. He reached out, his long fingers sliding across the mahogany surface to touch something lying beside his ledger. It was the pink hairbrush. "She walked into a room where men have begged for their lives and spoken of things no three-year-old has any business observing."
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"She’s just a child, sir. She doesn't understand—"
"That is precisely the problem," Lorenzo stood up, towering over the desk. The sheer physical presence of the man filled the room, heavy and dangerous. "Children see through walls we spend millions building. And I do not like being seen through."
