Chapter 3 - The Ghost in the West Wing
Living in Moretti Manor was like living inside a gilded cage guarded by wolves.
For two weeks, I played my part flawlessly. I spent my days with Leo, transforming his sterile, quiet nursery into a room filled with finger paintings, laughter, and warmth. For the first time since his mother died eighteen months ago, the little boy slept through the night without screaming.
Ricardo watched the transformation from a distance. He rarely ate meals with us, spending long hours behind the closed mahogany doors of his study or leaving the estate at midnight in armored convoys. But whenever he was near, I felt the heavy weight of his gaze following my every move.
Despite his strict rules, I caught glimpses of the man beneath the monster. I saw the way he stood outside Leo's bedroom door at 2:00 AM, listening silently to ensure his son was resting peacefully. I saw the subtle way he instructed the kitchen staff to prepare the meals I liked.
He was a dangerous man, a king in an empire built on blood and fear, but he was drowning in isolation.
It was on a rainy Tuesday evening that the silence of the mansion shattered.
Leo had fallen asleep early, exhausted from a day of playing in the garden. I was walking down the second-floor hallway toward my guest suite when I heard a faint, melodic sound echoing through the house.
It was a piano.
The notes were soft, beautiful, and profoundly mournful. I stopped near the top of the stairs, turning toward the source of the music.
It was coming from the west wing.
I knew the rules. I knew Ricardo’s warning. But the sorrow in the music was magnetic, pulling me down the dark corridor before my brain could stop my feet.
The west wing was pitch black, saved for the moonlight streaming through the floor-to-ceiling stained-glass windows. I stepped quietly along the plush runner rug until I reached a set of heavy double doors left slightly ajar. A warm, amber light spilled out onto the floor.
I peeked through the crack.
The room was a grand private gallery filled with paintings, framed photographs, and a sleek black grand piano. Sitting at the keys was Ricardo. He was wearing a dark shirt with the top buttons undone, his sleeves rolled up to reveal the dark tattoos creeping up his forearms. His eyes were closed as his fingers glided effortlessly over the keys.
Surrounding the room were dozen of portraits of a gorgeous woman with dark hair and striking blue eyes—Leo's late mother, Sophia.
This wasn't a secret operations room or a criminal vault. It was a shrine to his lost love.
Suddenly, the music stopped.
"I thought I made myself clear about the west wing, Elena," Ricardo’s voice cut through the dark, cold and sharp as a razor.
I froze, my hand dropping from the door frame. "I... I heard the music. I'm sorry, Ricardo. I didn't mean to invade your privacy."
Ricardo stood up from the piano bench and turned to face me. His face was a mask of dark, thunderous rage, but his eyes held a raw, exposed pain that made my heart ache.
He walked toward the doorway, his long strides closing the distance until he stood right in front of me, shutting the double doors behind him with a heavy thud.
"You are here to care for my son and wear my ring," Ricardo growled, stepping closer until I was backed against the corridor wall. "You do not pry into my past. You do not come down this hallway."
"You're hiding in the dark, Ricardo," I said softly, refusing to look down despite the terror racing through my veins. "You've built a prison out of your own house."
His jaw tightened, a muscle feathering near his ear. "You know nothing about me, girl."
"I know what grief looks like," I whispered, reaching out on pure instinct, my hand brushing against his tense forearm. "I know because I've been running from my own ghosts for five years."
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Ricardo went entirely still. His eyes dropped to my hand resting against his skin, then flicked back up to my face. For a fleeting second, the terrifying mafia boss vanished, replaced by a man desperate for human warmth.
Before either of us could say another word, the heavy security alarm at the front of the estate began to blare.
