Chapter 3 - The Ghost in the Shadows
Lily had slipped onto the estate by crawling through a narrow drainage culvert that ran beneath the southern security fence—a secret entry point she had discovered two years ago while playing hide-and-seek with her father’s guards.
Her small hands were cut from the rusted iron bars of the culvert, and her shoes were covered in thick mud, but she didn't feel the pain.
She pressed her ear against the cold glass of the dining room window, listening to the muffled voices inside.
She had seen her stepmother smile. She had seen her uncle Marco pour his wine. And she had seen her father—weak, hollowed out, walking like an old man carrying a heavy stone.
Seeing her father like that broke Lily's heart into a thousand pieces, but it also lit a fiery, dangerous spark inside her chest.
Her father wasn't weak because he was old. He was weak because he believed she was dead. He was dying of a broken heart.
"I'm not dead," Lily whispered to the glass, her small breath fogging the windowpane. "I'm right here."
She knew she couldn't just knock on the front door.
If she walked up the front steps, Marco’s guards—who were posted at the main gate—would see her before she reached her father. Victoria would find out immediately. They would grab her, throw her back into a car, and this time, they wouldn't lock her in a basement. They would kill her on the spot.
She needed to get to her father alone.
Lily shrank back into the darkness of the ivy walls as a security patrol walked past the garden path, their flashlights cutting through the dark rain. She waited until the yellow beams faded into the trees before moving.
She knew the estate better than anyone. She knew that her father's third-floor study had a small balcony that overlooked the west garden. She also knew that a thick, ancient wisteria vine climbed up the stone pillar directly beneath that balcony.
When she was nine, her father had caught her climbing that wisteria vine to reach the roof. He had been terrified, scolding her fiercely before pulling her into his arms and kissing her forehead, telling her that a Don’s daughter shouldn't act like a mountain goat.
Now, that vine was her only way in.
Lily crept across the lawn, staying deep in the black shadows thrown by the hedge rows. She reached the base of the stone pillar.
She looked up. The balcony was fifteen feet above her. The rain made the thick, woody stems of the vine slick and dangerous. Her fingers were cold, stiff, and raw from scraping mortar in the basement.
"For Daddy," Lily whispered to herself, grabbing the main stem of the vine.
She pulled herself up.
Her foot slipped on the wet stone, her knee slamming hard against the masonry with a sharp pain that made tears spring to her eyes. She bit her lower lip, refusing to make a sound.
She hauled her body upward, inch by inch, hand over hand, her muscles screaming with exhaustion. Her thin canvas jacket snagged on a wooden trellis, tearing open at the shoulder, but she kept climbing.
Ten feet. Twelve feet. Fifteen feet.
Her small fingers caught the cold, slippery stone of the balcony railing. With a final, agonizing push from her legs, she hauled herself over the balustrade, tumbling onto the wet stone floor of the third-floor balcony.
She lay there for a long moment, her heart hammering wildly, her lungs gasping for air.
The heavy glass French doors leading into her father's study were unlocked, slightly jarred open to let in the cool night air.
Inside, a single lamp burned low on the massive oak desk.
Dominic was sitting in his high-backed leather chair, his back to the balcony. He was holding a small wooden music box—a box that played a soft Italian lullaby whenever it was opened. Lily’s mother had given it to her when she was a baby.
The sweet, fragile tune echoed quietly through the dim room.
Dominic sat perfectly still, a half-empty glass of bourbon on the desk, his face buried in his free hand as the music played.
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Lily slowly picked herself up from the balcony floor. She stepped through the French doors, her soaked, muddy shoes leaving wet footprints on the expensive Persian rug.
"Daddy?" she whispered softly.
