Chapter 4 - Shadows in the Servants' Hall
The note felt like a burning ember between my fingers.
I stood in the center of my small basement bedroom, clutching the scrap of paper while the silence of the mansion pressed against my ears.
For an entire hour, I didn't move.
I sat on the edge of the narrow cot, listening to the pipes hum within the concrete walls.
Every creak of the floorboards above sounded like an approaching executioner.
I knew Dean Russo hadn't written that note out of petty annoyance.
Men like him didn't forgive public humiliation, especially when delivered in front of their subordinates by their supreme boss.
Adrian Moretti had made him crawl on the floor like a dog.
And Dean had decided that the blame belonged to me.
The next night, I locked the deadbolt on my door and shoved a heavy wooden chest against the handle.
I sat awake in the dark with my back pressed against the wall, clutching a heavy kitchen flashlight like a club.
At approximately 2:15 A.M., the sound began.
Heavy, deliberate footsteps echoed on the linoleum corridor outside.
They were slow, measured, and arrogant.
They stopped directly outside my door.
I held my breath, terrified that the sound of my lungs expanding would give away my exact position.
Then came the click.
The brass door handle slowly turned downward until it met the resistance of the deadbolt.
Whoever was on the other side didn't rattle it violently.
They simply applied steady, testing pressure, letting me know they were there.
A low, muffled chuckle vibrated through the thin hollow wood of the door.
Then the footsteps slowly retreated back down the hall toward the security station.
I didn't close my eyes for the rest of the night.
The next morning, I tried to convince myself that I could report it.
I went to Mrs. Higgins, the head housekeeper, who was sorting linens in the main laundry room.
"Mrs. Higgins," I started, my voice shaking slightly as I handed her a stack of freshly pressed sheets.
"I think someone is roaming around the staff quarters after the midnight shift."
"Someone tried my door handle last night."
Mrs. Higgins stopped folding, looking at me over the rims of her reading glasses with cold, exhausted eyes.
"Claire, this house is occupied by thirty armed men who carry loaded weapons for a living."
"They patrol the grounds at all hours."
"If you hear footsteps, it’s security doing their job."
"Keep your door locked, do your laundry, and don't make trouble."
"If you start causing friction between the domestic staff and Mr. Moretti's personal guards, you will be dismissed before dinner."
Her message was clear: my safety was irrelevant compared to the peace of the household.
The second night was worse.
At 2:40 A.M., the handle turned again.
This time, someone tapped on the wood with a heavy metallic ring.
Three slow, rhythmic taps.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
Then a folded slip of paper slid through the crack between the door and the linoleum floor.
I waited until the footsteps faded before I dared to crawl across the room.
I picked up the second note.
"The boss can't watch you all day, little bird."
Panic turned into cold, suffocating terror.
I realized with terrifying clarity that I was completely trapped.
If I went to the police, the local precinct would simply inform Adrian Moretti's lawyers within the hour.
If I quit and ran, Dean could track me down to Leo’s clinic in Queens before my first bus reached the city limits.
The guards in the east wing were all loyal to the Russo family; Dean was their captain’s blood.
There was only one place in this entire fifty-acre compound where Dean Russo wouldn't dare step with violent intent.
Only one room in the entire estate was off-limits to every guard, every captain, and every weapon.
The master suite on the third floor.
On the third night, after the mansion fell silent and the midnight patrol passed, I packed a tattered blanket, a small pillow, and grabbed a heavy brass fireplace poker from the library hearth.
I slipped off my shoes, crept up the back servant stairs like a ghost, and ascended to the north corridor.
I sat on the icy marble directly beside Adrian Moretti’s bedroom door.
I knew that if Dean came up there to hunt me, he would have to do it on Adrian Moretti’s doorstep.
And nobody committed a crime in front of Adrian Moretti without facing immediate death.
It was a desperate, insane gamble.
For three nights, I managed to slip away at 4:30 A.M. before the sun rose and before the master woke up.
I survived on two hours of sleep each day, running on pure adrenaline and cold coffee.
Until the fourth night.
Until the storm hit Oyster Bay.
Until my exhausted body finally gave out, and I fell into a deep, unconscious stupor against his doorframe.
Until the door swung open at 3:17 A.M., and Adrian Moretti looked down at my shivering form with a glass of whiskey in his hand.
Now, crouched before me on the cold marble, Adrian looked at my hand clutching his sleeve.
The anger in his gray eyes hadn't diminished, but it had shifted from cold fury to something far more dangerous: razor-sharp calculation.
"You said someone is planning to kill me," Adrian whispered, his eyes locking onto mine like steel vises.
"Who?"
"Dean Russo," I choked out, tears running freely down my face.
"I heard him yesterday afternoon in the private garden conservatory."
"He didn't know I was behind the large citrus trees cleaning the glass panels."
"He was talking to someone on an encrypted burner phone, Mr. Moretti."
"He told them that the security cameras on the north perimeter would go dark at midnight this Friday."
"And he said... he said your private shipment of rare scotch would be delivered tomorrow morning with something extra added to the seal."
Adrian didn't flinch.
He didn't blink.
He simply reached down, wrapped his strong, warm hand around my forearm, and pulled me up from the floor with effortless strength.
May you like
"Get inside," he said quietly, pushing his bedroom door wide open.
"Before anyone walks down this hall."
