Chapter 2 - The Whispers of the Estate
The silence in Roman's private study was heavy enough to feel physical. Double-pane glass blocked out the gentle murmur of the lake, leaving only the steady ticking of an antique grandfather clock in the corner. Roman sat behind his dark mahogany desk, the heavy sketchbook lying open before him.
A knock sounded at the door. Marco stepped inside, carrying a leather portfolio under his arm. He looked every bit the high-ranking strategist of the Moretti family—composed, immaculate, and utterly confident.
"The shipping routes through Genoa are secured for the quarter, Roman," Marco said, setting the papers down. "We had a small hiccup with customs, but I handled it personally."
Roman did not look at the portfolio. He kept his eyes on Marco's left wrist, where a platinum watch glinted under the chandelier light—the exact watch Mia had drawn in colored pencil.
"You've been putting in long hours, Marco," Roman said, his voice smooth and neutral. "Even late at night down by the water."
Marco's posture didn't change, but his eyes blinked once, a micro-expression so fast only a man who had survived a dozen betrayals would notice it. "The lake air helps me think. You know how I get when contract renewals come up."
"Of course," Roman replied, closing the sketchbook with a soft thud. "We've been brothers for fifteen years. I know how you think."
Marco smiled, nodded, and excused himself, leaving the room with the easy stride of a man who believed he was entirely safe.
An hour later, Roman summoned Grace to the study. The young mother entered cautiously, her hands clasped tightly over her apron. She looked at the giant desk, then at Roman, her eyes filled with unspoken anxiety.
"Sit down, Grace," Roman commanded gently.
She took a seat on the edge of the leather armchair, her knees together, her posture stiff. "If this is about Mia's drawing, Mr. Moretti, I swear she didn't mean anything by it. She just draws whatever catches her eye. She has a vivid imagination—"
"Grace," Roman interrupted softly. "I am not angry with Mia. I need to understand her. Does she often wander down to the boathouse at night?"
Grace swallowed, her eyes lowering. "She... she wakes up during full moons. She likes to look out her bedroom window. Our quarters face the eastern pier. She sits on the sill with her pencils when she can't sleep."
Roman leaned forward, resting his forearms on the desk. "Did she tell you anything else about what she saw that night?"
"No," Grace said honestly. "Mia doesn't talk much about adult things. She processes everything through her paper. If she drew it, she saw it."
Roman nodded slowly. "Starting today, you and Mia stay inside the main house after sunset. Do not mention this drawing to Marco. Do not mention it to the guards. Do you understand?"
"I understand," Grace whispered, the gravity in Roman's voice making her heart race.
Once Grace left, Roman accessed the estate’s main security terminal concealed behind a panel in his bookshelf. He pulled up the video archives for Thursday night—the night depicted in Mia's drawing. He skipped forward to 11:45 PM at the eastern pier.
The screen flickered. At exactly 11:42 PM, the feed went dark with a static overlay, resuming fifteen minutes later at 11:57 PM. The security logs showed a routine system cycle, signed off by Marco himself.
Roman pulled out his phone and made a single call to his private security team in Milan. "I need a hidden camera grid installed in the east wing by midnight. No internal logs. No local server connections."
He hung up, picked up Mia's sketchbook once more, and began turning the pages he had glossed over earlier. Deep near the spine, tucked into a fold, was a second small sketch that had slipped out of Mia's pocket during their conversation by the fountain.
Roman unfolded the paper. It showed the same black car from the boathouse, but this time Mia had drawn a logo stamped onto the rear bumper—a stylized silver falcon holding a broken blade.
Roman’s hand tightened around the paper, crushing the corner. The silver falcon was the crest of the Valenti crime syndicate—the Morettis' fiercest rivals, whom Roman had driven out of Lombardy three years ago.
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Marco wasn't just leaking information. He was helping the Valentis prepare for a return.
Roman reached into his desk drawer and pulled out a quiet, unmarked burner phone. But before he could dial, the lights across the entire estate plunged into total darkness.
