Chapter 3 - THE RULE ABOUT THE WEST WING
For the next four days, nothing happened.
Which should have made me feel better.
It didn’t.
Silence inside the Moretti mansion had layers.
Normal silence.
Employee silence.
Luca-is-angry silence.
Men-in-suits-have-arrived silence.
And the newest category:
Someone is watching Claire silence.
I discovered that one Wednesday morning.
I entered the laundry room and found a cup of coffee waiting beside the folding table.
Black.
No sugar.
Exactly how I drank it when I was tired.
Nobody in the house had ever made me coffee.
I asked Teresa.
Not hers.
Margaret denied it.
Frank claimed he possessed neither culinary skill nor kindness before nine.
I poured it down the sink.
By Friday, I had learned more about the mansion than I wanted.
Luca woke before six.
He drank espresso at 6:20.
Read three newspapers.
Exercised.
Took calls.
And rarely ate breakfast.
He had a habit of walking through rooms without announcing himself.
I discovered that while standing on a chair reorganizing a pantry shelf.
“Why are the olives arranged alphabetically?”
I almost fell.
Luca stood in the doorway.
“They were bothering me.”
“They’re olives.”
“Exactly.”
He looked at the shelves.
“Spanish, Italian, Greek.”
“Yes.”
“That isn’t alphabetical.”
“It’s by origin.”
“You just said alphabetical.”
“I panicked.”
He stared.
Then walked away.
Five minutes later, Frank appeared.
“Did you tell Mr. Moretti you panicked about olives?”
“Unfortunately.”
Frank smiled.
That was the first time I saw him do it.
Slowly, the mansion began feeling less like a museum.
Mostly because I refused to behave like I was attending my own funeral.
Then I met Adrian Vale properly.
He entered the kitchen while I was recording grocery deliveries.
“Claire Bennett.”
I looked up.
“You know my name.”
“I know everyone’s.”
“That’s either impressive or concerning.”
His smile widened.
Adrian was handsome in the polished way expensive lawyers were handsome.
Perfect hair.
Perfect tie.
Perfect teeth.
Nothing relaxed.
“I hear Luca likes you.”
“I’m not sure Luca likes sunlight.”
“He doesn’t.”
Adrian leaned against the counter.
“How are you finding the position?”
“Clean house. Terrible employee morale.”
He laughed softly.
“You’re different.”
“That’s what people say before giving disappointing performance reviews.”
His eyes moved to my clipboard.
“What’s that?”
“Inventory.”
“Anything interesting?”
“In olive-related news, absolutely.”
His smile disappeared for less than a second.
Then returned.
“Be careful, Claire.”
“With olives?”
“With curiosity.”
He left.
I stared after him.
Something about Adrian’s friendliness bothered me more than Luca’s intimidation.
At least Luca’s danger was honest.
That evening, I was helping Margaret reconcile household expenses.
She hated that I called it reconciling.
“You’re entering receipts.”
“I’m reconciling.”
“You’re entering.”
“I need professional dignity.”
She sighed.
I entered numbers.
Catering.
Landscaping.
Utilities.
Cleaning products.
Then another Halston invoice appeared.
$62,000.
Description:
STRUCTURAL WORK.
I checked the date.
Three days earlier.
No contractors had visited.
I knew because outside vendors required security registration.
I had started helping Frank digitize the log after discovering the old one looked like it had survived World War II.
No Halston.
I looked at Margaret.
“Were contractors here Tuesday?”
Her fingers stopped.
“Why?”
“Structural repairs.”
“Claire.”
“There weren’t any.”
“Enough.”
She closed the ledger.
“We’re finished.”
“Margaret—”
“You need to understand something.”
She lowered her voice.
“This house existed before you arrived, and it will exist after you leave.”
“That sounds encouraging.”
“Listen to me.”
Her face softened.
It surprised me.
“You have a good heart. You notice people. You notice things. That can be dangerous around powerful men.”
“I’m not trying to cause problems.”
“I know.”
She looked toward the hallway.
“That’s what worries me.”
I left at nine.
Or tried to.
Rain hammered the windows.
Frank informed me my car wouldn’t start.
“Battery.”
“Perfect.”
“I’ll call a driver.”
“No, I’ll get a rideshare.”
“Mr. Moretti doesn’t allow rideshares past the gate after nine.”
“Of course he doesn’t.”
Frank disappeared.
Ten minutes later, Luca walked into the foyer.
“You’re still here.”
“My car chose unemployment.”
He glanced outside.
“I’m going downtown. I’ll take you.”
I laughed.
He didn’t.
“Oh.”
Twenty minutes later, I sat inside the back seat of a black SUV with Luca beside me and a driver behind the wheel.
Chicago slid past in wet reflections.
For five minutes neither of us spoke.
Then Luca said, “You’ve been asking questions about Halston.”
I turned.
“Who told you?”
“Nobody has to tell me anything in my house.”
“That sounds exhausting.”
“Answer.”
“I saw another invoice.”
“How much?”
“Sixty-two thousand.”
His gaze shifted toward the window.
“No contractors came.”
“I know.”
That surprised me.
“You know?”
“I checked.”
Something moved in my chest.
This wasn’t a wealthy man irritated about accounting errors.
Luca was investigating.
“Then why keep paying?”
“I’m not.”
I stared.
“What?”
“The accounts show payments. I didn’t authorize them.”
That changed everything.
“Who can authorize payments?”
His eyes met mine.
“Four people.”
“Who?”
“Me.”
He counted.
“Adrian.”
Another finger.
“My uncle Matteo.”
A third.
“And my attorney, Daniel Russo.”
I thought of Adrian smiling in the kitchen.
Be careful, Claire.
“Does anyone else know you’re investigating?”
“No.”
“Then why tell me?”
He didn’t answer immediately.
“Because whoever is doing this knows you noticed.”
My stomach tightened.
“The paper.”
“Yes.”
“Maybe someone wants to help.”
“Or someone wants to see what you’ll do.”
“What do you think?”
“I think accidents make noise.”
He looked directly at me.
“This is quiet.”
The SUV stopped at my apartment building.
I reached for the handle.
“Claire.”
I looked back.
“Stop looking.”
“I haven’t been.”
“Good.”
He paused.
“And if Adrian asks what you’ve seen?”
There it was.
The first crack.
“You don’t trust him.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t need to.”
I stepped onto the sidewalk.
Before closing the door, I leaned down.
“One question.”
His expression warned me.
I asked anyway.
“What’s actually inside the west wing?”
The air between us froze.
Luca’s face changed.
Not anger.
Something older.
Pain, maybe.
Then he said quietly:
“Something I should have destroyed years ago.”
The door closed.
The SUV disappeared into traffic.
I stood beneath the awning watching its taillights vanish.
And suddenly the missing money felt less important than the room Luca Moretti refused to discuss.
Because whatever was hidden in that wing wasn’t just connected to money.
May you like
It was connected to him.
And someone in his own house was trying very hard to make sure I found it.
