Chapter 4 - The Secrets in the Wardrobe
The fourth floor of the Moretti estate was colder than the rest of the house.
The central heating ducts didn't reach up here—or perhaps the chill was simply a byproduct of the absolute, suffocating isolation that had blanketed the corridor for half a decade. Dust motes drifted lazily through the thin slivers of amber moonlight piercing the tall Gothic windows, settling over the imported Persian runner like a shroud.
Antonio Moretti stood motionless in front of the single locked oak door at the end of the hall.
In his right hand, he held a heavy brass key. It was tarnished, cold to the touch, and felt impossibly heavy, as if it weighed a thousand pounds. For five years, he had sworn he would never turn this key again. He had convinced himself that leaving the room untouched was a monument to his grief, a penance for a night he could not change.
Behind him stood Damen, watching with cautious apprehension.
"Antonio, I checked her apartment," Damen said softly, breaking the heavy silence of the corridor. "Or what’s left of it. It’s clean. A tiny, two-bedroom walk-up in Astoria. Bills paid on time, grocery receipts, photos of her husband, Daniel, working construction. No hidden comms, no syndicate ties, no mafia money. She’s completely, boringly legitimate."
Antonio didn't look back. His eyes remained fixed on the keyhole. "Then how did a three-year-old child draw the exact layout of this door?"
"Kids have wild imaginations," Damen argued, though even he sounded unconvinced. "Maybe she saw it when she wandered up the service stairs earlier today."
"She was in the basement the entire time," Antonio replied flatly. "Rosa checked on her every ten minutes. She never left the service kitchen."
"Then someone told her."
"Who?" Antonio turned his head slightly, his dark eyes fixing Damen with a piercing glare. "Who in this house has access to the fourth floor? Who would dare risk their life to tell a stranger’s toddler what lies behind this door?"
Damen swallowed hard, holding up his hands defensively. "Nobody. You know damn well nobody comes up here."
Antonio turned back to the door. His breathing was shallow, rhythmic, controlled. With a slow, agonizing deliberation, he slid the heavy brass key into the lock.
Click.
The sound echoed down the empty corridor like a gunshot. It was a sound that broke a five-year silence, shattering the invisible barrier Antonio had built around his own soul.
With a slight push, the heavy oak door swung inward.
A cloud of old dust billowed out, carrying the faint, heartbreaking scent of baby powder, maple syrup, and old paper.
Antonio stepped across the threshold.
The room was frozen in time, preserved like a museum exhibit of a tragedy. A small toddler bed with blue gingham sheets sat neatly made against the far wall. A wooden bookshelf was lined with battered children’s books—*Goodnight Moon*, The Giving Tree, Where the Wild Things Are. On a small play table in the corner sat a half-built Lego tower, frozen mid-construction.
And scattered across the floor were toys. Trucks, wooden blocks, stuffed animals.
And right in the center of the rug, resting on a small blue mat, was an empty space.
The spot where a red-and-white toy stethoscope had once lived.
Antonio walked across the room like a ghost navigating a graveyard. His boots made soft tracks in the thick layer of dust on the hardwood floor. He knelt down beside the empty spot on the rug, his large, calloused hand hovering just above the floorboards where the toy had been picked up five years ago—or perhaps taken.
"Antonio," Damen called softly from the doorway, his voice laced with sudden urgency as his phone buzzed in his hand. "You need to see this. The background check on Elena Rossi’s husband—Daniel Rossi."
Antonio didn't turn around. "What about him?"
"He didn't just fall from a construction site in Queens," Damen said, his voice dropping to a harsh whisper. "He was working as a contract electrician. And five years ago, right before he died... he was contracted by an anonymous shell company to rewire the private security grid of the Moretti estate."
Antonio slowly froze.
May you like
"Go on," Antonio whispered.
"The shell company that hired him?" Damen swallowed hard. "It was owned by Vincent Costa."
