Chapter 3 - The Maid and the Shadow
By four in the morning, the Moretti mansion was locked down like a maximum-security fortress.
Heavy iron security shutters had descended over every ground-floor window with dull, pneumatic thuds. Outside, fifty elite soldiers from Lucas’s personal guard lined the stone perimeter, their automatic weapons hidden beneath tailored long coats.
In the grand study, the air was thick with tension and the sharp, bitter scent of espresso.
Lucas sat behind his massive mahogany desk. He had changed into a clean black shirt and charcoal suit, though his face remained dangerously pale. To anyone looking at him, he appeared cold, calm, and fully in control—the formidable Don who had broken three rival syndicates before his thirtieth birthday.
Standing in a semicircle before his desk were the four men who held the keys to his kingdom.
On the left stood Julian Vance, his second-in-command—a sharp, fox-faced man in his late forties who managed the family’s financial portfolios and union bribes. Next to him was Gabriel Moretti, Lucas’s cousin and underboss, a thick-set man with broken knuckles and a permanent scowl. Beside Gabriel stood Victor, the head of house security, a silent wall of a man whose scar-visaged face rarely showed emotion. And finally, sitting in a leather armchair with an open leather medical bag, was Dr. Arthur Vance, Julian’s older brother and the family’s long-time private physician.
"The New Jersey warehouse fire was a false alarm," Julian was saying, his hands smooth and unblemished as he gestured toward a tablet. "Someone set fire to three wooden pallets in the alley to trigger the automated alarm system. By the time Gabriel’s men arrived, there was no rival crew. Just empty smoke."
"A distraction," Gabriel growled, leaning his broad hands on the edge of Lucas's desk. "They pulled thirty of our best men away from the estate. Who gave the order to dispatch the perimeter guard to Jersey?"
"The call came through the main house switchboard," Victor said, his deep voice heavy. "It was routed using my personal override code."
Lucas listened in total silence. His gray-blue eyes moved from face to face with terrifying stillness.
Julian. Smooth, calculating, always smelling of expensive cologne and fine cigars. Gabriel. Brash, quick-tempered, bitter that Lucas’s father had passed the leadership to Lucas instead of him. Victor. Controlled the cameras, knew every blind spot in the mansion. Dr. Vance. The man who wrote Lucas’s medical prescriptions, the man who knew better than anyone the exact lethal dosage of his severe respiratory triggers.
And as Dr. Vance sat in his leather chair, he reached into his vest pocket, pulled out a silver pipe, filled it with dark tobacco, and struck a match.
The sweet, rich scent of vanilla and cherry smoke drifted lazily across the mahogany desk.
Lucas didn't flinch. He didn't look at the doctor. He kept his hands folded flat on his desk, his ring glinting beneath the lamp light.
"Doctor," Lucas said softly.
Dr. Vance paused, the match hovering near his pipe. "Yes, Lucas?"
"My inhalers," Lucas murmured. "The batch you delivered to my study last Thursday. Where were they sourced?"
Dr. Vance chuckled softly, lighting his pipe and taking a slow puff. "The usual pharmaceutical supplier in Zurich, Lucas. Highly refined, top-grade epinephrine and albuterol. Why do you ask? Did you have an episode tonight during the alarm?"
"No," Lucas lied seamlessly. "I simply misplaced one near the library hallway. I wanted to ensure the spares in my desk were up to standard."
"They are perfectly fine, my boy," Dr. Vance smiled, blowing a thin ring of sweet smoke into the air. "I test every shipment myself. You know I take your health as seriously as I took your father’s."
You bastard, Lucas thought, his heart cold as glacier ice. You didn't just kick the inhaler away. You swapped the medicine. You filled the canister with inert saline so even if I reached it, it wouldn't have saved me.
"Good," Lucas said calmly. "Victor, double the perimeter guard. Julian, trace the phone call that came through the switchboard. Gabriel, I want twenty men stationed at the Brooklyn docks by sunrise. If someone is testing our defenses, I want them broken before noon."
The men nodded, murmuring their agreement, and began to exit the study one by one.
As Dr. Vance reached the heavy double doors, Lucas spoke again.
"Doctor."
The old physician turned back, his silver pipe held lightly between his teeth. "Yes?"
"My former head maid, Rosa Carter," Lucas said casually. "Her daughter has developed a severe respiratory issue. Asthmatic, I believe. I have moved them to the east wing so they can be monitored."
Dr. Vance’s eyes narrowed slightly—a tiny, almost imperceptible contraction of his pupils that lasted less than a second.
"A maid’s child in the east wing?" Dr. Vance asked, his voice dripping with subtle disdain. "Is that wise, Lucas? The east wing is secured for family matters. It seems... improper."
"I decide what is proper in this house," Lucas said, his tone dropping several degrees into ice. "I want you to examine the child tomorrow morning. Ensure she has whatever medication she needs."
Dr. Vance stared at Lucas for two long seconds. Then he bowed his head slightly. "Of course, Boss. Whatever you require."
The heavy oak doors clicked shut behind him.
When the room was empty, Lucas stood up. He walked over to the side table, pulled out a clean handkerchief, and wiped down the armrests of the chair where the doctor had sat.
He then picked up his private satellite phone—the one connected to no house network, known only to his most loyal enforcers in Sicily—and dialed a twelve-digit code.
"It's Lucas," he said when the line connected. "Send six untraceable tactical operatives to the estate. Put them in the east wing service tunnels. Their only job is to protect a six-year-old girl named Lily and her mother."
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He paused, looking down at his desk where a small, plastic inhaler—empty and scratched—lay resting on his private ledger.
"And call my personal chemist in Milan," Lucas added, his voice cold and absolute. "Tell him I need an immediate, silent analysis of a pharmaceutical batch. We have a serpent in the garden, and I am going to chop off its head."
