Chapter 3 - Whispers in the Stone
The middle of the night in the Ricci mansion was a haunting experience. The modern security lights cast long, pale bars across the hallways, making the shadows look like silent sentinels waiting in the corners.
I woke up at three in the morning to the sound of a soft, rhythmic scratching sound.
At first, I thought it was a branch scraping against the window of my third-floor room. But when I sat up, I realized the sound was coming from the floorboards below—specifically, from the second floor.
I quietly slipped out of bed, checking on Rosie first. She was fast asleep in her lavender room, her plush rabbit tucked safely under her chin. Reassured, I stepped out into the hallway, my bare feet silent against the cold marble stairs.
I followed the sound down to the second floor.
The corridor split into two directions. To the west lay the boys' bedrooms and the guest suites. To the east lay the forbidden wing—the area Henry had warned me to avoid. The double doors at the end of the east hallway were made of dark mahogany, carved with intricate floral patterns that looked like suffocating vines.
The scratching sound was coming from behind those doors.
As I drew closer, the scratching stopped, replaced by the faint, muffled sound of a child crying.
"Leo? Asher? Nico?" I whispered, placing my palm against the cool wood of the door.
No answer. Only the sound of sharp, hitching breaths.
I reached for the heavy brass handle. It was locked, as expected. But when I looked down at the keyhole, I noticed a tiny, glowing sliver of light coming from the gap beneath the door. Someone was inside the sealed wing.
"You shouldn't be here."
The voice came from the darkness behind me.
I spun around, my heart hammering against my ribs. Matteo Ricci stood at the intersection of the hallways, wearing a dark silk robe over his trousers. In the dim light, the scar across his eyebrow looked like a silver thread.
"I heard a sound," I said, refusing to let my voice tremble. "I thought one of the boys was hurt."
"The boys are asleep in their rooms," Matteo said, his voice low and dangerous as he stepped into the light. "I told you to stay in your wing, Clare. My patience is not infinite."
"There is someone in there, Mr. Ricci," I insisted, pointing to the keyhole. "I heard crying. It sounded like a child."
Matteo's expression went entirely blank—a terrifying, frozen calm that was far worse than anger. He walked past me, pulled a heavy iron key from his pocket, and inserted it into the lock. The mechanism turned with a loud, hollow click.
He pushed the door open.
I looked past his shoulder, expecting to see a hidden prisoner or a crying child. Instead, the room was empty.
It was a beautiful, dust-covered art studio. Stacks of canvases leaned against the walls, covered in white sheets. In the center of the room stood an unfinished portrait of three young boys sitting in a field of wildflowers. The paint was dry, cracking with age.
On the floor beneath the easel lay a small, battery-operated tape recorder, its red light blinking in the dark.
Matteo stepped over to the recorder, picked it up, and pressed the stop button. The crying sound immediately ceased.
"My wife," Matteo said, his voice carrying a raw, jagged edge that made my chest ache. "She used to record the boys when they were babies. She kept the recordings here, in her studio. Sometimes... when the house is too quiet, I play them."
I looked at him, the dangerous mafia boss of Connecticut, standing in a dusty, locked room, holding a cheap plastic tape recorder like it was a holy relic.
"I'm sorry," I said softly. "I didn't mean to intrude on your grief."
May you like
"Grief is a luxury I cannot afford, Clare," Matteo said, locking the door once more and pocketing the key. "And curiosity in this house is a fatal disease. Remember that."
He walked back down the hallway, leaving me alone in the cold, silent dark of the second floor.
