Chapter 3 - The Sanctuary of the Third Floor
The third floor of the Moretti mansion had been off-limits to domestic staff since the death of Vincent’s wife three years ago.
It was a fortress within a fortress. Heavy mahogany doors, reinforced bulletproof glass, private security terminals, and rooms wrapped in rich dark wood, deep velvet rugs, and the quiet scent of cedar and expensive tobacco.
Dr. Harrison, the Moretti family’s private physician, finished applying a neat butterfly bandage to the back of my head.
"A mild concussion, Mrs. Carter," Dr. Harrison stated, packing his medical kit. "No skull fracture, thank goodness. But you need rest. No heavy lifting for at least a week."
"I don't have the luxury of rest, Doctor," I murmured, watching Lily across the grand room.
My daughter was sitting on a massive leather sofa, happily eating a bowl of sliced strawberries provided by the executive chef himself. Beside her on the sofa sat nine-month-old Enzo. The baby was propped up on plush pillows, gurgling happily as Lily showed him a picture book about farm animals.
The heavy doors opened, and Vincent walked in. He had removed his rain-soaked coat and jacket. His white dress shirt sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, revealing thick, muscular forearms laced with faint silver scars—reminders of the brutal battles he had fought to secure his place at the head of the syndicate.
"Doctor," Vincent acknowledged with a quick nod.
"She’s fine, Mr. Moretti. Just needs rest," Harrison replied before ducking out of the room, closing the heavy oak doors behind him.
Vincent walked over to the sofa. He stood watching the two children for a long moment. Enzo reached out his tiny, chubby hand, clutching Lily’s cardigan sleeve. Lily gently patted the baby’s head, whispering, "It's okay, Enzo. The bad lady is gone."
A look of profound, raw emotion flashed across Vincent’s usually stone-hard face.
He moved to the desk, pulled out a heavy velvet chair, and placed it across from me. He sat down, leaning forward with his elbows resting on his knees.
"Norah broke after fifteen minutes in the basement," Vincent revealed, his voice dangerously smooth.
My breath caught in my throat. "Who paid her?"
"She received two hundred thousand dollars wired into an offshore account in the Cayman Islands three days ago," Vincent said. "The transaction was routed through three shell companies designed to look like a legitimate inheritance transfer."
"Can you trace it?"
"My IT team cleared the first two layers," Vincent stated, his hazel eyes locking onto mine with absolute intensity. "The original source of the funds came from a private account managed by Vale International Logistics."
I blinked, processing the name. Vale.
"Cassandra’s family," I whispered.
"Cassandra’s father," Vincent corrected coldly. "Julian Vale. He wanted Enzo out of the picture before the wedding next month. With Enzo gone, any child Cassandra bore me would become the sole heir to the Moretti shipping networks and financial holdings."
A cold chill swept down my spine. "Vincent... if Cassandra’s father is involved, then Cassandra—"
"Cassandra claims she knew nothing about it," Vincent interrupted. "She claims her father acted independently to secure her position. But I don't believe in coincidences in my line of work."
He stood up, walking toward me. He stopped mere inches from where I sat, towering over me, yet his presence brought an overwhelming sense of absolute security.
"You saved my son, Clara," Vincent said softly. "You and your daughter. I owe you a debt that money cannot pay."
"I don't want your money, Mr. Moretti," I said honestly, looking up into his eyes. "I just want my daughter to be safe."
"She will be," Vincent promised, his voice carrying the absolute weight of an oath. "And so will you. Starting today, you are no longer a maid in this house. You are Enzo’s primary guardian. You will live here, on the third floor. My personal guard will protect your door twenty-four hours a day."
"Vincent, I can't stay here as a guest," I protested gently. "What will your family say? What will the syndicate say?"
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Vincent leaned down, his face inches from mine, his warm breath fanning against my skin.
"Let them say whatever they damn well please," Vincent murmured darkly. "In this house, my word is law."
