Chapter 5 - The Sanctuary of the Third Floor
The third floor of the Moretti mansion was Vincent’s private domain. No servants were allowed past the heavy oak doors without his personal invitation. The rooms here were simple, functional, devoid of the marble and gold that decorated the lower levels. It looked like the apartment of a monk who happened to own a multi-billion-dollar shipping empire—rows of books, a simple gray sofa, and a massive desk covered in spreadsheets.
Grace Parker sat on the edge of the gray sofa, her hands clasped tightly in her lap. Her torn uniform had been replaced by a large, clean black wool sweater Vincent had given her from his wardrobe. She looked lost inside the fabric, her thin shoulders swimming beneath the wool.
Lily was asleep beside her, her head resting on her mother’s thigh, her small fingers still clutching the leg of the white stuffed rabbit.
The door opened, and Vincent entered carrying a tray with two cups of hot chamomile tea and a small plate of toast. He set the tray on the coffee table, his movements deliberate and quiet.
"Drink," Vincent said, sitting in the chair across from her.
Grace looked at the tea, then up at him. Her eyes were still guarded, full of the instinctual survival mechanism of a woman who had spent three years being hunted by forces she couldn't see.
"Why are we here, Mr. Moretti?" she asked, her voice trembling. "Edwin told me the police were coming. He said if I didn't sign the confession, they would take Lily away tonight."
"Edwin lies," Vincent said. He pushed the cup of tea closer to her. "And Edwin no longer works for this house. He just doesn't know it yet."
Grace took the cup, her fingers shaking against the porcelain. She took a small sip, the warmth bringing a faint touch of color back to her pale cheeks. "I didn't take that brooch, sir. I’ve worked here for eight months. I’ve cleaned rooms with diamonds sitting on the vanity, watches that cost more than my life. I never touched a single thing. I only wanted the insurance. For Lily’s asthma."
"I know you didn't take it," Vincent said. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the broken silver name tag. He placed it on the table between them. "Your daughter dropped this in the corridor while she was trying to get to you."
Grace looked at the broken piece of metal, her eyes filling with tears again. "She scratched that with a nail in the kitchen. She wanted to be like the big girls who work the dinners. She... she loves this house because of the gardens. She thinks it’s a castle."
"It’s not a castle, Grace," Vincent said quietly. "It’s a graveyard. And the people who built it are very careful about who they let inside." He leaned forward, his hands resting on his knees. "Tell me about my brother, Anthony."
The cup in Grace’s hand froze half-way to her lips. The color left her face completely, her eyes widening in absolute terror. She looked down at Lily, then back at Vincent, her breath catching in her throat.
"I... I don't know what you mean," she stammered, her voice dropping into a desperate whisper. "Mr. Anthony was the don’t son. I only saw him on television—"
"Don't lie to me, Grace," Vincent said, his voice hardening just enough to make her stop. "I have the medical files from the Lake Forest clinic. I have the DNA profile from Gary General. I know Lily is his daughter. I know he married you in secret before he died."
Grace let out a small, broken sound, her hand flying to her mouth to stifle a sob so she wouldn't wake the child. She set the tea down with a clatter, her shoulders collapsing inward.
"He loved me, Vincent," she wept, using his first name for the first time, her voice raw with five years of buried grief. "Anthony wasn't like his father. When we met at the restaurant in South Side, he didn't tell me who he was. He was just Tony. By the time I found out he was a Moretti, I was already pregnant. He knew his father would kill me if he found out he was going to have a child with a girl from the docks. He told me to wait. He said he was going to take his share of the trust, leave the family, and move us to California."
She looked up at him, her face wet with tears. "Then his plane went down in Colorado. Three days later, my husband Thomas—the man who married me to give Lily a legal name so the Moretti family wouldn't track her down—he was killed on the highway. They took everything from me, Vincent. They left me with nothing but my baby. I came to work here because I thought the safest place to hide was right under your noses. I thought you would never look at a maid."
Vincent looked at her, the coldness in his chest turning into an old, familiar fury. His brother hadn't died in an accident. The plane crash in Colorado had always been suspicious—a sudden engine failure in clear weather. His father had ruled it an act of God, but Vincent’s ledgers had shown a large, anonymous transfer of funds from Vale Development to an aviation mechanic in Denver two weeks before the flight.
The Vales hadn't just targeted Grace. They had cleared the path for Isabella to marry Vincent by removing Anthony first, then ensuring any potential heir was erased from the ledger before the wedding day.
"They didn't just look at you, Grace," Vincent said, his voice like the crack of winter ice. "They monitored you. They waited until the night of my engagement dinner to finish the job, because they knew I would be too busy with the guests to check the paperwork."
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He stood up, walking over to the sleeping child. He looked down at Lily’s small, round face, the faint freckles on her nose that were identical to the ones Anthony had carried since childhood.
"You're wrong about one thing, Grace," Vincent said, his hand resting gently on the child’s red hair clip. "You aren't hiding anymore. You're home. And from this moment on, anyone who steps over your door steps over mine."
