Chapter 2 - The Silent Kingdom
The penthouse at 111 Murray Street was not a home; it was a museum of wealth and paranoia.
The floors were polished white Calacatta marble, so cold and pristine they felt like ice beneath Cameron’s sneakers. The walls were mostly glass, offering a dizzying, three-hundred-foot drop down to the concrete of Tribeca below. There were no family photographs, no messy toy boxes, no signs of life other than the silent, dark-suited men who stood at every exit with their hands clasped in front of them.
Cameron’s new quarters were on the east wing of the penthouse, directly across the hall from Leo’s bedroom.
The room was larger than her entire apartment in Astoria. It had a king-sized bed wrapped in ivory silk sheets, a private terrace, and a closet filled with brand-new, high-end casual clothes in her exact size—all bought and delivered within three hours of her signing the contract.
"Mr. Duca doesn't like clutter," a quiet voice said from the doorway.
Cameron turned to see Mrs. Gable, the housekeeper. She was a woman in her late fifties with a stiff posture and a face that looked as if it had forgotten how to smile during her ten years of service to the Duca family.
"I can see that," Cameron said, touching the edge of a silk pillowcase. "It feels like a hotel."
"It's a fortress," Mrs. Gable corrected, her voice dropping to a whisper as she stepped inside and closed the door. "Since Mrs. Duca passed away eighteen months ago, this house has been... dead. Mr. Matteo is a powerful man, Miss Jenkins, but he is also a hunted one. The boy is his only vulnerability. That is why the nannies didn't last. They were too afraid of the father to ever truly look at the son."
"Are you afraid of him?" Cameron asked.
Mrs. Gable looked out the window at the grey river below. "Everyone who works for Matteo Duca is afraid of him, dear. He is a fair man, but he is a man of blood. If you cross him, or if you fail to protect that boy, there is no court in this city that can save you. Remember that."
With that chilling warning, the housekeeper departed, leaving Cameron alone in her golden cage.
An hour later, Cameron walked across the hall to Leo’s room.
The room was massive, filled with expensive educational toys, a custom-built wooden castle, and a bed shaped like a racing car. But Leo was not playing. He was sitting in the corner of his room, behind a heavy leather armchair, curled into a tight little ball with his head resting on his knees.
Cameron didn't walk in and demand that he play. She didn't call his name.
She walked over to the center of the room, sat down on the thick blue rug, and pulled a small, silver cleaning cloth from her pocket. She picked up one of the dusty wooden blocks from the floor and began to wipe it down, hum-singing a quiet, old lullaby her mother used to sing to her.
For ten minutes, the only sound in the room was the soft squeak of the cloth against the wood and her quiet voice.
Then, she heard a soft rustle of fabric.
Through the corner of her eye, she saw a mop of dark, messy curls peek out from behind the leather chair. Two big, dark brown eyes—so like his father's, yet completely devoid of the older man’s coldness—stared at her with a mixture of curiosity and suspicion.
Cameron didn't look at him. She just kept wiping the blocks, stacking them into a neat, low tower.
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"I'm building a wall," she said quietly to the air. "But it needs a door. Do you think a wall should have a door, or should it stay closed?"
Leo didn't answer. But he took two steps out from behind the chair, his small fingers clutching a blue wooden train car.
