Chapter 2 - Shadows in the East Wing
The east wing of the Vescari manor felt entirely different from the rest of the house. While the main foyer and the conservatory were bathed in light and designed to impress visiting politicians and syndicate capos, the third floor of the east wing was a labyrinth of narrow corridors, faded wallpaper, and heavy oak doors that remained stubbornly locked.
My room was surprisingly spacious—a high-ceilinged chamber with a four-poster bed, deep mahogany wardrobes, and a large arched window overlooking the overgrown rose gardens behind the estate.
By the third day, Lily and I had settled into a rhythm. Mornings were spent in the conservatory doing basic sign-language exercises, reading illustrated storybooks, and drawing. Lily was fiercely intelligent, absorbing words and concepts twice as fast as other children her age. But beneath her bright, eager smiles, I noticed an underlying current of hyper-vigilance. Every time a heavy door slammed in the distance, or a car engine revved down the driveway, her small shoulders would hunch, and her eyes would dart toward the nearest exit.
“She remembers the explosion,” a voice said from the doorway.
I jumped, dropping the pastel crayon I was holding.
Elena, the head housekeeper—a stern, tight-lipped woman in her fifties with iron-gray hair pulled back into a severe bun—stood in the doorway holding a stack of freshly laundered linens. Her eyes were cold, assessing me with the practiced scrutiny of someone who had survived decades in a house of violent men.
“You startled me,” I said, placing a hand over my racing heart.
“People startle easily in this house,” Elena replied, walking into the room and placing the linens on the armchair. She glanced over at Lily, who was currently engrossed in coloring a picture of a blue whale. “Mr. Vescari hired you to watch her, not to pry into things that don't concern you.”
“I wasn't prying,” I said defensively.
“Weren't you?” Elena’s gaze flicked to the heavy mahogany wardrobe against the far wall. “You asked the kitchen staff about the fire last night. You asked about the wing that burned down five years ago.”
A cold shiver ran down my spine. I had asked the chef about the fire—the tragic gas leak explosion that had allegedly killed Matteo’s wife and left Lily deaf from the concussive blast. But I had whispered it in the corner of the kitchen while everyone else was busy.
“I’m just trying to understand what happened to her,” I said, keeping my voice steady. “If I’m going to help her heal, I need to know her history.”
Elena stepped closer, lowering her voice so Lily couldn't hear. “History in this house is a dangerous thing, Miss Miller. Some doors are locked for a reason. Mr. Vescari protects what is his with blood. If you go digging around in the past, you won't just lose your job—you’ll lose your life.”
With that ominous warning, Elena turned on her heel and marched out of the room, her sensible black shoes clicking rhythmically against the wooden floorboards.
I exhaled a breath I didn't realize I’d been holding.
That night, after Lily had finally fallen asleep in her adjoining bedroom, I found myself wide awake. The silence of the mansion was oppressive, broken only by the occasional distant groan of the old plumbing and the howling wind rattling the loose panes of the east wing windows.
Restless, I slipped out of bed, pulling a dark woolen cardigan over my pajamas.
I hadn't intended to explore. I truly hadn't. But as I walked down the dim hallway of the third floor, my bare feet making no sound on the thick oriental runner, I noticed something strange.
One of the doors—a heavy, brass-fitted mahogany door that had been locked tight every single day since I arrived—was standing slightly ajar.
A narrow sliver of pale yellow light spilled out onto the dark hallway floor.
My heart hammered against my ribs. I knew what Elena had said. I knew the danger. But curiosity, sharp and insistent, drove me forward.
I crept down the hall, holding my breath, and pressed my fingertips against the edge of the door, pushing it open just enough to peer inside.
It wasn't a bedroom. It was a study. But unlike Matteo’s pristine downstairs office, this room looked like it had been frozen in time. Bookshelves lined the walls, filled with medical journals, old photo albums, and legal files. Dust motes danced in the beam of a single brass desk lamp left burning on a large mahogany writing desk.
I slipped inside, closing the door softly behind me.
The air in the room smelled of old paper, leather, and faint, lingering traces of a sweet floral perfume that didn't belong in a house ruled by Matteo Vescari.
I walked over to the desk. Scattered across the blotter were medical reports regarding Lily’s hearing loss, signed by ENTS and pediatric specialists from Boston to Zurich. But beneath the medical files lay something else—a thick, leather-bound journal with a cracked spine and a faded gold monogram on the cover: E.V.
Elena Vescari? No. Matteo’s late wife’s name had been Elena.
My fingers trembled as I reached out and opened the cover.
The handwriting on the first page was elegant, looping, and frantic. I began to read by the dim light of the brass lamp, my eyes scanning the hurried ink lines:
“October 14th. Matteo is changing. The syndicate demands more of his time, and the men he brings around the house... they aren't businessmen. They are monsters. I found documents in his safe today regarding the Miller shipping accounts. If he goes through with this acquisition, my father’s name will be completely ruined...”
My breath hitched in my throat.
Miller.
My maiden name was rare. My father had died in a suspicious car accident when I was ten years old, leaving me and my mother with nothing.
I turned the page, my hands shaking violently now.
“November 3rd. I tried to leave. I packed a bag for Lily and me. But Matteo caught me at the gates. He told me I could walk out of this house, but my daughter stays. He said he would destroy anyone who tries to take her away. God help me, I’m terrified of my own husband...”
I flipped to the final written entry, dated just one day before the infamous gas explosion that supposedly killed her:
“December 12th. The brakes on my car failed this morning. It wasn't an accident. I know what he’s planning. If anything happens to me, look in the floorboards of the nursery. The truth about who really destroyed the Miller family is—”
The sentence ended mid-word. A jagged slash of black ink smeared across the paper where the pen had violently jerked away.
Suddenly, a loud, heavy click echoed through the silent study.
The lock on the heavy mahogany door turned from the outside.
May you like
Before I could drop the journal or dive behind the desk, the door swung wide open, and Matteo Vescari stepped into the room.
The light from the hallway caught the cold, deadly fury in his pale gray eyes as he looked from the open journal in my trembling hands straight back to my pale, horrified face.
