Chapter 2 - The Wire Behind the Gilt
The third-floor guest room was larger than the entire two-bedroom apartment I shared with my ailing mother in Pilsen.
Dr. Harris, a discreet, gray-haired physician on the Moretti syndicate’s payroll, had spent twenty minutes examining my spine. He confirmed what I had already feared: a severe sacroiliac joint sprain, coupled with deep, localized tissue contusions across my lower right back.
He had taped my lumbar support, administered a non-narcotic anti-inflammatory injection directly into the muscle, and handed Mrs. Carter a bottle of muscle relaxants with strict instructions that I was not to lift so much as a dinner plate for two weeks.
“You’re lucky,” Dr. Harris had muttered as he packed his leather medical bag. “Another two inches to the left, and that mahogany corner would have fractured your transverse process. What the hell were you thrown against?”
I hadn't answered him. I had simply pressed the gel ice pack deeper into my lower back and stared out the arched window at the cold Chicago rain lashing against the glass.
Downstairs, the engagement dinner concluded with chilling civility.
Through the floorboards, I heard the faint rumble of expensive towncars and limousines pulling away down the winding, gravel-lined driveway of the Moretti estate. By 10:15 PM, the mansion had lapsed into that heavy, oppressive quiet unique to sprawling estates built on blood and secrets.
A knock sounded at the door.
Mrs. Carter opened it, stepping back with a respectful dip of her head.
Daniel stood in the doorway, his broad frame nearly filling the jamb. His eyes were devoid of emotion.
“Claire. The boss wants you in the study.”
Panic seized my chest. “Is he... is he firing me?”
Daniel’s scarred lip twitched slightly. “The boss doesn't call an in-house physician for people he’s about to fire. Come on. I’ll help you walk.”
With Daniel supporting my elbow, we made our way down the spiral servants' staircase, bypassing the grand foyer and slipping into the east wing.
The heavy mahogany double doors of Luca’s private study were shut tight. Inside, the heavy velvet drapes were drawn across the windows. The room smelled of old paper, leather, and the faint, bitter trace of ozone.
The gold-framed mirror was propped up on two heavy wooden sawhorses in the center of the room.
Luca stood over it, his suit jacket discarded over the back of a chesterfield chair, his crisp white dress shirt rolled up to his forearms. In his right hand, he held a heavy flathead screwdriver.
On the polished mahogany blotter of his desk sat a small, rectangular object no larger than a box of wooden matches.
Beside him stood Vanessa.
Her red silk dress looked slightly crumpled now. Her arms were crossed tightly over her chest, her chin tilted up in an attitude of haughty defiance, but there was an unnatural pallor beneath her blush.
When I entered, Luca looked up.
His eyes swept over me, taking in the careful, guarded way I moved, the way I leaned on Daniel for support.
“Sit, Claire,” Luca said softly, pointing to the deep leather armchair beside his desk.
I sank into the chair, clutching the ice pack to my hip, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird.
“Mr. Moretti, I didn't mean to cause trouble,” I began, my voice tight. “If I damaged the frame when I fell—”
“Be quiet, Claire,” Vanessa snapped, her voice trembling with barely suppressed rage. “Luca, this is humiliating. You dragged me out of our own bedroom, you tore apart a three-hundred-year-old family heirloom, and now you’re entertaining the delusional ramblings of a girl who cleans our toilets!”
Luca didn't raise his voice. He didn't even turn his head toward her.
He simply slammed the heavy steel screwdriver onto the desk.
The sharp *crack* echoed through the vaulted room like a gunshot.
Vanessa jumped, her mouth snapping shut instantly.
Luca picked up the small black box from the blotter and walked toward me. He extended his hand, turning the device over under the glow of the green-shaded banker’s lamp.
A tiny, pinprick-sized LED light on the side was pulsing with a faint, rhythmic green glow.
“Do you recognize this, Claire?” Luca asked.
I swallowed hard, looking from the device to Luca’s grim face.
“I... I didn't see the whole thing, sir. But I saw the wire. And the light.”
“Tell me everything,” Luca ordered. “From the moment you stepped into this room at three o’clock this afternoon. Do not leave out a single breath.”
I took a deep, shaky breath, keeping my eyes fixed on the device.
“I was doing the weekly deep-cleaning of the private wing,” I whispered. “Mrs. Carter told me you had an important syndicate board meeting tomorrow morning, so I wanted to make sure the bookshelves and the mantelpiece were dusted.”
Luca nodded slowly. “Go on.”
“I was standing on the library ladder, dusting the top molding of the mirror above the fireplace. That’s when I heard it.”
“Heard what?”
“A voice,” I said, shivers crawling over my scalp. “A man’s voice. It was faint, muffled. At first, I thought someone was outside the balcony doors. But then I realized the sound was coming from directly behind the glass.”
“What did the voice say?” Luca pressed, his gray eyes burning into mine.
“He said... *‘The frequency is breaking up. Turn the gain higher, Elena. I can’t hear the safe combinations over the air conditioner.’*”
At the name *Elena*, Vanessa let out a sharp, choked intake of air.
Luca’s head snapped toward her with terrifying speed.
His eyes were cold, dead voids.
“Elena?” Luca whispered.
Vanessa’s face went entirely white. “She’s lying! She’s making it up! My name is Vanessa! Everyone knows my name is Vanessa Bellini!”
Luca ignored her outburst, turning back to me with deliberate, glacial control.
“What did you do when you heard the voice, Claire?”
“I was confused, sir,” I said, tears burning my eyes at the memory of the sheer terror I’d felt. “I reached behind the frame to see if a phone or a walkie-talkie had fallen behind it. My fingers touched some black electrical tape. That’s when Miss Bellini came into the room.”
“And what did Miss Bellini do?”
“She screamed at me,” I whispered, looking down at my trembling lap. “She demanded to know what I was doing touching her decorator’s mirror. I told her there was a man talking behind the wall. I thought someone had broken into the house. I said we needed to call Daniel and security.”
“And how did she react to that?”
“She became hysterical,” I confessed. “She grabbed my arm and yanked me off the ladder. I tripped on the rug. When I tried to reach for the desk to steady myself, she... she shoved me. Hard.”
Luca’s jaw clenched so violently I heard the audible grind of his molars.
“She shoved you into the corner of the desk?”
“Yes, sir. My lower back hit the brass corner bracket. The pain was so bad I couldn't breathe. While I was on the floor, she tore the mirror down off its wall anchors herself. She said if I ever spoke a word of what I heard, she would tell you I was stealing silver, and she’d have her father’s men burn my mother’s apartment building to the ground.”
The air in the room seemed to freeze solid.
Daniel took a slow, heavy step toward Vanessa, his hand dropping casually to the butt of the Glock holstered beneath his suit jacket.
Vanessa backed up until her hips struck the sawhorses.
“Luca, she’s insane!” Vanessa’s voice rose into a shrill, manic panic. “She’s trying to extort us! She probably planted the bug herself! She’s an envious, miserable little gutter rat trying to ruin our wedding!”
Luca slowly set the black recording device back onto the blotter.
He walked over to Vanessa. He didn't touch her. He didn't yell. He merely stood six inches from her face, looking down at her like an entomologist examining a repulsive parasite pinned to a board.
“Claire has worked for my household for eleven months,” Luca whispered, each syllable dripping with venom. “Her mother was a bookkeeper for my father thirty years ago. Claire has never stolen a single penny, never spoken out of turn, and never lied to me. Not once.”
Luca leaned closer.
“You, on the other hand, have been in this house for four months. And this little black box...” Luca gestured over his shoulder, “...Daniel pulled it out of the hollow backing of that mirror twenty minutes ago. It is a military-grade, encrypted burst transmitter with an active LTE uplink.”
Vanessa’s lips trembled. She couldn't find words.
May you like
“Now,” Luca continued, his voice dropping into a register that made the hairs on my arms stand up. “Why was a military-grade listening device transmitting my private study meetings to a man who calls you *Elena*?”
***
