Chapter 2 - The Girl with the Daisies
Knock. Knock. Knock.
The sound was absurdly light, completely devoid of the sharp, disciplined rhythm of my security detail or the urgent pounding of my lieutenants.
I sat rigid in my velvet armchair, my right hand instinctively slipping inside my robe to grip the cold grip of my revolver. "Who is that?" I called out, my raspy voice barely carrying across the vast expanse of the room. "I gave strict orders that I was not to be disturbed!"
The brass door handle turned slowly. The heavy oak door swung open six inches.
Standing in the gap was a tiny girl.
She couldn't have been more than five years old. She had a thick mop of dark, tumbling curls framing a round, innocent face. She wore a bright pink cotton dress, white socks, and a woolen red scarf wrapped clumsily around her neck. In her right hand, she clutched a small, messy bouquet of wild daisies, their stems crushed tightly in her small fist.
I stared at her in utter, speechbound shock.
For twenty-three years, no human being had ever entered my private quarters without explicit, multi-layered security clearance. Armed guards checked every visitor with metal detectors. Electronic keycards logged every entry.
Yet here was a small child standing on my Persian rug as if she had walked into a public park.
"Who are you?" I demanded, trying to project the terrifying authority that had once brought grown men to their knees. "Where are the guards? Where is your mother?"
The little girl didn't flinch. She didn't look at the high gilded ceilings, the sparkling crystal chandeliers, or the polished mahogany furniture. She walked right past the heavy mahogany wardrobe, her tiny shoes making soft clicking sounds on the marble floor, stopping right beside my chair.
"Giulia," she said softly, her voice crisp and clear.
"Giulia who?" I snapped, my brow furrowed in deep irritation. "You shouldn't be here, child. This house is dangerous. Get out."
Giulia tilted her head, her wide brown eyes looking directly into mine. There was no fear in her gaze—none of the trembling deference I was used to seeing in adults. She reached out and placed the crushed, wilted daisies directly onto the velvet blanket covering my lap.
"I brought you these," she whispered. "Because you're scared."
A sudden, sharp silence fell over the room.
I almost laughed out loud. The legendary Dario Castellano—a man who had survived three assassination attempts, built a multi-billion-dollar criminal syndicate, and ruled an entire city with an iron fist—being told by a five-year-old child that he was scared.
"I am not scared of anything, little girl," I growled, pulling my blanket up to cover the daisies. "I am sick. There is a difference."
Giulia shook her head, her dark curls bouncing around her shoulders. "No. You're scared of the dark. Like me."
"I am not scared of the dark," I said through gritted teeth, my pride wounded in a way I hadn't felt in decades.
"Yes, you are," she insisted innocently, pointing her small finger toward the grand floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the grey estate grounds. "You leave the little lamp on all night. And you don't sleep."
An icy bolt of shock shot straight down my spine.
My hand froze over the blanket. I stared at her, my pulse suddenly hammering against my throat.
She was right. I kept a small brass nightlamp burning in the far corner of my suite every single night. I never slept for more than twenty minutes at a time, terrified of what would happen if I drifted into deep unconsciousness.
But nobody knew that.
Not the doctors. Not Aldo Manfredi. Not even the guards who stood outside my door, because the thick drapes blocked all light from showing in the hallway.
"How... how do you know I don't sleep, Giulia?" I asked, my voice losing its harsh edge, replaced by a sudden, intense focus.
Giulia leaned closer to my chair, resting her tiny hand on the wooden armrest. She looked toward the dark, shadowed corner near my heavy mahogany wardrobe—the exact place where I had felt a sinister presence lurking during my agonizing 3:17 a.m. awakenings.
"Because someone comes here," Giulia whispered, her big brown eyes widening with complete earnestness.
My blood ran completely cold. "What did you say?"
"The person who visits you when everyone is asleep," Giulia said softly, holding her plush stuffed rabbit tighter against her chest. "The one who doesn't want you to get better."
I sat frozen, incapable of speech.
Before I could ask another question, the suite door swung wide open with a sharp click.
Elena Marchetti stepped into the room, holding a silver tray with a pitcher of water. The moment her eyes landed on her daughter standing beside my chair, the silver tray slipped from her fingers, crashing onto the rug with a loud clatter.
Elena’s face drained of all color, turning as white as a sheet.
"Giulia!" Elena gasped, her voice trembling violently as she rushed across the room, pulling the little girl behind her apron. "Mr. Castellano... I am so sorry! I was changing the linens in the guest suite... she must have slipped past me... please, forgive us!"
I looked at Elena’s face.
It wasn't the reaction of a nervous servant who was afraid her child had broken a house rule. It was pure, unadulterated terror. She wasn't afraid of me punishing her. She was terrified of what her daughter had just said to me.
"Elena," I said, my voice dropping into a low, deadly pitch. "How long has your daughter been wandering around my wing of the house?"
"She hasn't, sir! I swear to God she hasn't!" Elena cried, clutching Giulia tightly. "She's just a child, she makes up stories—"
"Mama, I'm not making it up!" Giulia protested from behind her mother's apron, pointing her tiny arm toward the shadowed floor beside the heavy mahogany wardrobe. "I saw the black mark on the floor! Right there!"
I pushed myself up from my velvet armchair, ignoring the sharp, tearing pain in my joints. I leaned heavily on my cane, stepping slowly across the room toward the wardrobe.
On the polished hardwood floor, directly beneath the gap of the wardrobe's carved base, was a faint, smudge of greasy black dust. It was industrial coal-soot grease—the exact type of lubricant used exclusively on the mechanical hinges of the estate's old underground maintenance shafts. A secure network of subterranean tunnels built fifty years ago that bypassed every security camera and keycard reader in the mansion.
My breathing stopped in my chest.
"Giulia," I said slowly, turning my head toward the child. "Where did you see that black dust?"
"I followed the shoes," Giulia replied innocently.
"What shoes?"
Giulia looked toward the open bedroom door. "The shiny black shoes with the silver buckles. The man who comes out of your wardrobe every night when you're sleeping."
At that exact, chilling second...
A heavy, measured shadow fell across the bright marble floor of the corridor outside my room.
I looked up.
Standing in the hallway, framed by the grand archway, was Aldo Manfredi.
He was wearing his tailored charcoal suit. And on his feet were immaculate, custom-made, shiny black leather shoes with distinct silver side buckles.
Aldo stood completely silent, his cold grey eyes locking onto the little girl, then shifting slowly to meet mine.
For twenty years, I had seen loyalty, respect, and discipline in Aldo’s eyes. But right now, standing in the dim light of the hallway, I saw the one thing I never thought I would see behind his cold demeanor:
Pure, calculating, cornered fear.
May you like
Giulia stepped around her mother, reaching out to grab my trembling hand with her tiny fingers. She looked up at me and whispered the final, devastating truth:
"Mr. Castellano... the ghost in your room... is someone you trust."
