Chapter 3 - The Ghost in the West Wing
Upstairs in the private family quarters, the atmosphere was suffocating.
Ethan was asleep under the watchful eye of Dr. Harris, who sat in an armchair by the boy’s bed, his medical bag resting open on the floor. The sedatives administered to ensure the boy’s heart rate stabilized had done their job, but Ethan’s face was still pale against the silk pillows.
Down the long, oak-paneled corridor in the staff wing, Sophia Carter sat on the edge of her narrow bed, holding little Lily so tightly that the child stirred in her sleep.
A sharp, authoritative knock sounded at her door.
Sophia’s breath caught in her throat. She gently laid Lily down, tucked the blanket around her shoulders, and walked to the door. When she turned the brass handle and pulled it open, Dominic Moretti was standing in the dim hallway.
The overhead sconce cast deep shadows across his chiseled face, accentuating the hard line of his jaw and the dangerous intensity in his dark eyes.
“Mr. Moretti,” Sophia whispered, her voice trembling despite her best efforts to steady it. “Is… is Ethan alright?”
“He’s sleeping,” Dominic said flatly. He didn't ask permission to enter; he simply stepped past her into the small, immaculate room. The space smelled faintly of lavender and old paper. He looked around—the neatly stacked books, the framed photograph of Sophia’s late husband, Mark, who had died two years ago in a warehouse accident tied to Moretti logistics, and the tiny pair of yellow sneakers by the door.
“You’re wondering if I helped them,” Sophia said quietly, turning to face him, her hands clasped tightly in front of her apron.
Dominic turned his gaze back to her. “Why would I wonder that, Sophia? You’ve worked for me for six years. Your record is spotless. Your references were bulletproof.”
“Because,” Sophia said, her voice dropping to a fragile whisper, “in your world, everyone has a price. Or a reason. My husband died working for your shipping company. The settlement was generous, but it ran out. I live under your roof, eat your food, and my daughter walks your halls. To someone looking to hurt you, I’m the weakest link.”
Dominic walked slowly toward her, his heavy leather shoes making no sound against the worn carpet. He stopped just inches away, towering over her.
“If you were the weakest link, Sophia, your daughter wouldn't have risked her life to knock that plate out of Ethan’s hand,” Dominic said, his voice dropping into that low, magnetic register that commanded absolute obedience. “Children don't act on scripted lies at three years old. She saw something. And I need to know every single detail.”
Sophia swallowed hard, looking up into the eyes of the man who controlled half of New York. “She… she talks about a man. A man with a watch.”
Dominic’s eyes narrowed instantly. “What watch?”
“A gold watch,” Sophia said, searching her memory. “She mentioned it earlier, when I was trying to calm her down. She said the man who touched the cake had a shiny watch that ticked loudly, and a scar across his thumb.”
Dominic’s expression froze.
A thumb scar. A gold watch.
The description didn't match any of the kitchen staff. It didn't match Chef Laurent, nor any of the junior prep hands.
It matched Viktor Vance—Marcus’s younger brother, who worked as an independent logistics auditor and had unmitigated access to the estate’s secure service elevators whenever Marcus signed off on his maintenance passes.
“Stay here, Sophia,” Dominic said, turning sharply toward the door.
May you like
“Mr. Moretti—what does this mean?” Sophia asked, stepping forward.
“It means,” Dominic said without looking back, “someone in my inner circle forgot whose house they were standing in.”
