Chapter 3 - The East Wing
By eight o'clock the following morning, the atmosphere inside the Moretti estate had transformed completely.
The grand salon was locked, its doors guarded by two armed men in dark tactical gear who stood like statues on either side of the polished mahogany wood. Downstairs, in the main kitchen, the usual energetic chatter among the cooking staff had been replaced by a tense, nervous silence. Everyone moved quickly, keeping their eyes lowered, speaking only in hushed whispers whenever Vincent's name was mentioned.
I packed our few belongings into two small worn suitcases within thirty minutes. We didn't own much—a few changes of clothes, Emily's school books, a collection of small wooden toys her father had carved before he died, and a framed photograph of our family from happier times in Ohio.
At nine sharp, a young man named Marcus—Vincent's personal driver and security chief—knocked on our door.
"Mrs. Carter," Marcus said respectfully, bowing his head slightly. He was in his late twenties, clean-shaven, with sharp hazel eyes and a quiet demeanor that belied his lethal training. "Mr. Moretti asked me to assist you with your bags."
"Thank you, Marcus," I said, handing him the smaller suitcase. "Where is Vincent?"
"He has been at the boathouse with the forensic team since four this morning," Marcus replied smoothly, guiding us down the service corridor toward the grand central staircase. "The city coroner was brought in privately under Mr. Moretti's authority. The recovery process was completed an hour ago."
I felt a lump form in my throat. "And... Charles and Dominic?"
Marcus’s face remained completely impassive. "They are being handled according to family protocol, ma'am. You do not need to concern yourself with them."
We climbed the grand marble staircase to the second floor—a place I had only ever visited with a vacuum cleaner or a polishing rag in hand.
Marcus led us down the sunlit east corridor, past portraits of long-dead Moretti patriarchs, until he stopped in front of a pair of heavy white doors with intricate gold-leaf detailing.
He pulled a brass key from his pocket, unlocked the door, and pushed it open.
"These are the East Wing master suites," Marcus announced, stepping aside. "Mr. Moretti ordered them prepared for you and Emily."
I walked through the threshold and gasped.
The suite was larger than our entire house back in Ohio had been. High ceilinged, flooded with morning sunlight from massive bay windows overlooking the snowy gardens below, the room featured a king-sized bed wrapped in plush ivory linens, a sitting area with a marble fireplace, a private study corner, and an adjoining bedroom painted in soft lavender—clearly prepared specifically for Emily.
On the mahogany coffee table sat a massive arrangement of fresh white lilies and a simple handwritten card.
Emily ran straight into the lavender bedroom, her mouth dropping open as she saw a large white bookshelf filled with hundreds of brand-new children's books, art sets, drawing pads, and high-end colored pencils.
"Mommy, look!" she called out, her voice bouncing happily off the high walls. "They have the giant oil pastel set! The hundred-and-twenty color one!"
I walked over to the coffee table and picked up the card.
Written in Vincent’s bold, angular handwriting were four simple lines:
This home is yours for as long as you need it. Nothing in this house will ever threaten you or your daughter again. - V.M.
"Is it acceptable, Mrs. Carter?" Marcus asked from the doorway.
"It's... it's too much, Marcus," I said, turning to him, feeling an overwhelming sense of imposter syndrome. "I'm a housekeeper. I clean these rooms. I shouldn't be living in them."
"Mr. Moretti does not make mistakes regarding who belongs in his house," Marcus replied firmly, though his eyes softened slightly. "And if I may speak frankly, Mrs. Carter... Mrs. Sophia loved you and Emily. She spoke of you often during her last months. She told Mr. Moretti more than once that you were the only honest person working in this entire building."
I looked down at the card in my hands, a silent tear escaping my eye and dampening the smooth paper.
"Will there be anything else, ma'am?" Marcus asked.
"No, Marcus. Thank you."
"I will be posted outside this corridor twenty-four hours a day," Marcus added. "If you need anything—food, clothing, transport for Emily to school—you only need to ask me."
He bowed his head again and stepped out, closing the heavy doors quietly behind him.
I stood in the quiet luxury of the suite, listening to the happy sounds of Emily unpacking her art supplies in the next room. For three years, I had lived with a knot of suffocating terror permanently lodged in my chest, waking up every night at every creak of the floorboards, terrified that the secret I carried would destroy us.
Now, the secret was out. The murderers were caught.
So why did I still feel like the floor was about to give way beneath my feet?
I walked over to the large bay window, looking out across the vast, snow-covered grounds of the estate.
In the distance, down near the frozen edge of the lake, several black SUVs were parked beside the old boathouse. Men in black uniforms were moving back and forth, setting up temporary yellow police tape around the perimeter.
Standing near the edge of the dock, wrapped in a heavy black trench coat, was Vincent.
He was standing completely still, looking out across the grey water, the icy wind whipping his dark hair around his face. He looked impossibly lonely—a powerful king ruling over an empire built on blood, grief, and betrayal, standing alone in the snow beside the grave of the only woman he had ever loved.
As I watched, he slowly raised his head, looking up toward the second-floor windows of the east wing.
May you like
Even from two hundred yards away, across the snow and through the cold glass, our eyes met.
Vincent raised his hand slightly—a quiet, subtle gesture of acknowledgment—before turning back toward the boathouse to finish his terrible work.
