Chapter 3 - The Midnight Confrontation
By midnight, the storm outside had intensified, rattling the heavy glass windows of the main study. Mrs. Higgins stood before my desk, her hands clasped tightly in front of her apron. She thought she had been called in for a routine inventory review.
The sealed glass of water sat on the blotter between us.
"Mrs. Higgins," I began, my voice dangerously low. "How long have you managed the estate inventory?"
"Twenty-one years, Mr. Moretti," she replied, her voice steady, though a faint twitch near her left eye betrayed her nerves. "Always with a clean record."
"A clean record," I repeated, sliding the tablet across the desk. The video played silently, capturing every calculated movement from the previous afternoon.
Higgins color drained instantly. She stared at the screen, her lips parting, but no sound came out.
"You attempted to incapacitate one of my employees," I said, leaning forward. "You used a toxic compound to induce severe illness, risking not just her health, but the safety of a three-year-old child who lives in these quarters."
"She was poking her nose where it didn't belong!" Higgins snapped, the mask slipping as panic took over. "That girl was auditing accounts meant for family loyalists! She didn't belong here!"
"She is a human being working under my roof," I said, standing up. The sheer size of the room seemed to shrink around her. "And you violated the fundamental rule of this estate: loyalty to the house means protection for everyone inside it."
May you like
I signaled toward the double doors. Two security guards stepped out of the shadows, flanked by local authorities who had been quietly brought in through the private garage. There would be no back-alley justice tonight; the legal system would handle her public ruin, while my own internal measures ensured she would never work within a hundred miles of Chicago.
As Higgins was led away, weeping and cursing, I felt no satisfaction. I only felt the lingering image of a three-year-old girl standing on a plastic stool, trying to iron a man's shirt because she believed her mother's survival depended on it.
