Chapter 3 - The Price of a Secret
By 5:00 p.m., the Ravenwood estate was dead silent once more.
The rain continued to beat against the tall conservatory windows, washing away the last remnants of an autumn afternoon that had promised a wedding and delivered a war.
I sat behind my desk with a glass of un-iced rye whiskey in my hand, staring at the forensic data tablet Daniel had placed before me.
The sweep of Vivien’s guest quarters had yielded a treasure trove of digital treason. A satellite phone hidden inside the lining of a Chanel shoebox. Bank statements from a Swiss routing number tied directly to the Chicago Syndicate—specifically, the faction led by Viktor Vance, our primary rival in the Midwest shipping lanes.
She hadn't just been a curious fiancée. She had been a plant. Placed in my orbit eighteen months ago at a charity gala in Palm Beach, meticulously groomed to infiltrate my household, memorize my habits, and wait for the precise moment when the federal trade agreements cleared my desk.
The door to the study creaked open.
I didn't look up immediately. I knew who it was.
Clara Carter, my head housekeeper, stepped cautiously into the room. Her hands were clasped in front of her apron, her face etched with deep, maternal worry.
“Mr. Moretti,” she began softly. “Emma is out in the gatehouse with Daniel. She’s... well, she’s a little shaken up. She doesn't understand what happened to Aunt Vivien.”
I took a slow sip of the rye, letting the burn settle in my chest before I raised my eyes to meet Clara’s.
“Your daughter saved this house today, Clara,” I said, my voice softening just a fraction.
Clara blinked, surprised by the direct praise. “She... she just told me she saw someone where they weren't supposed to be, sir. Children notice things we try to hide.”
“Yes,” I agreed, standing up from my desk and walking toward the tall, rain-streaked window. “They do.”
I walked over to the antique mahogany side table where I kept a small cedar box of imported sweets—treats I occasionally kept on hand for the rare times a child wandered into the administrative wing of the estate. I opened the lid, picked up a wrapped honey drop, and handed it to Clara.
“Give this to her,” I instructed. “And tell her that Aunt Vivien had to go on a very long, very unexpected trip.”
May you like
Clara looked at the candy, then up at my face, reading the cold, unyielding lines of a mafia boss who had just narrowly avoided total destruction. She gave a slow, respectful nod.
“Thank you, Mr. Moretti. I’ll make sure she’s asleep by seven.”
