Chapter 3 - The Secret in the West Wing
The fourth-floor penthouse of the Westchester estate was less a living space and more a tactical command center disguised in luxury. Heavy velvet drapes blocked out the creeping gray light of dawn. Persian rugs muffled every footstep, and the walls were lined with sound-insulating panels originally installed during the height of Dominic's father's territorial wars in the late nineties.
Lily woke up on a sprawling leather sofa, rubbing her eyes with both fists.
"Mommy?" she mumbled, her voice thick with sleep. "Where are the balloons?"
"The party is over, sweetheart," Anna said gently, kneeling beside the sofa and smoothing down Lily's tangled curls. She tried to keep her voice steady, forcing a bright, reassuring smile that felt like shattered glass against her teeth. "We're just staying in a different room today. A special room."
"Is Ethan here?"
"He's resting downstairs, Lily-bug. But Mr. Moretti said you can see him later."
The heavy steel-reinforced door at the end of the private foyer clicked, and Dominic walked in, carrying a tray with warm milk, fruit, and toast. He looked like a man who hadn't slept in three days, yet his posture remained ramrod straight. He set the tray on a low mahogany table without making a sound.
Lily peeked over the edge of the blanket, eyeing the powerful mafia heir with the uninhibited curiosity only a three-year-old could muster. "You have a big house."
Dominic paused, a rare, ghost-like softening touching the corners of his mouth. He knelt down to eye level with the little girl, ignoring the expensive fabric of his trousers against the floor.
"It's too big," Dominic said quietly. "And it's not very safe. But you made it a little safer last night, didn't you?"
Lily nodded solemnly, adjusting her stuffed rabbit under her arm. "Bad men shouldn't touch cake."
"No," Dominic agreed, his voice dropping an octave. "They shouldn't."
He stood up, looking at Anna across the room. "Marco traced the burner phone used to send the message. It pinged off a relay tower three miles south, near the old railway yards. Standard decoy maneuver."
"So we're no closer to knowing who sent it?" Anna asked, her arms crossed tightly over her chest.
"We know it wasn't an outsider," Dominic corrected smoothly. "The burner was activated using a regional corporate Wi-Fi code—one assigned exclusively to senior administrative personnel within Moretti Holdings."
Anna felt the breath leave her lungs. "Senior staff? But that means—"
"That someone in my inner circle is bleeding information to the Vaneer family," Dominic finished, his voice as cold as winter stone. "The Vaneers have been trying to squeeze us out of the shipping docks for six months. If Ethan had died last night, the family would have plunged into an internal succession war. They wouldn't have had the bandwidth to fight off the port acquisitions."
"And you think this person is still inside the mansion?"
"I know they are." Dominic walked over to the tall arched window, parting the velvet curtain by an inch to peer out at the sprawling grounds below. "Which is why nobody leaves. Not the cooks, not the gardeners, not the accountants. Nobody."
The morning dragged on with the heavy, suffocating weight of a ticking clock. Outside, the estate looked peaceful, dew glistening on the manicured lawns and the white roses standing tall against the morning breeze. But inside, the atmosphere was charged with a silent, lethal tension.
At ten o'clock, a soft chime echoed through the penthouse intercom.
Dominic pressed the wall console. "Report."
Marco’s voice crackled through the speaker, tight and agitated. "Boss, we have a complication. We checked the security logs for the west wing second-floor storage room. The one where the extra tableware and silver services are kept."
"Go on," Dominic ordered.
"The inventory list doesn't match. Two silver chafing dishes are missing. And more importantly—the keycard used to log into the room at midnight belonged to Arthur Vance."
Anna gasped. Arthur Vance was Dominic’s chief legal counsel and financial advisor, a man who had served the Moretti family for over thirty years. He had been at Ethan’s birthday party the night before, sitting near the front table, sipping champagne and applauding when the cake was brought out.
Dominic didn't flinch. His face remained carved from stone. "Arthur?"
"He's missing from his quarters, boss," Marco said. "His car is gone from the executive garage. The south security gate was forced open from the inside at 3:30 a.m."
Dominic released the intercom button. He turned slowly, looking at Anna, then down at Lily, who was busy building a castle out of wooden blocks on the rug.
"He was the architect," Dominic murmured, more to himself than to her. "He handled the trust funds, the corporate mergers, the offshore accounts. If I died, or if Ethan died, the estate defaults to a board of trustees—controlled entirely by Arthur and his associates."
"He tried to kill a child for a corporate board seat?" Anna whispered, horror washing over her.
"Power makes monsters out of accountants, Anna," Dominic replied bitterly. He reached inside his jacket and pulled out a heavy, matte-black Sig Sauer pistol, checking the magazine with a practiced, mechanical click before sliding it back into his shoulder holster. "Lock the door behind me. Do not open it for anyone—not even Marco—unless I give you the specific passphrase."
"What passphrase?"
Dominic looked straight into her eyes. "White roses."
May you like
Before Anna could answer, he turned and strode out of the penthouse, the heavy steel door sealing
shut behind him with a definitive, ominous thud.
