Chapter 3 - The Silent Enemy
The transition into the penthouse was seamless to the outside world, but to Cameron, it felt like stepping onto a stage where every actor was wearing a mask, and she was the only one without a script.
Her new quarters were beautiful—a spacious bedroom with a private bath, decorated in soft creams and warm wood tones, connected to Leo’s nursery by a heavy, soundproofed door. The closet was already filled with high-quality, comfortable clothes in her size, bought and delivered within hours of her signing the contract.
But the luxury did not ease the tension that hung in the air like heavy ozone.
For the first three days, Leo barely let her out of his sight. He didn't speak, but he no longer threw things at her. When he felt the anger rising—when a tower of blocks fell over, or when the light from the window shifted too quickly—he would look at her, his little fists clenched, his breathing shallow. Cameron would simply sit on the floor, open her arms, and say the same words:
"I'm here, Leo. You can have big feelings. I'm not going anywhere."
And slowly, the little boy would walk over, lean his head against her shoulder, and let the storm pass without violence.
"You have a very strange way of handling him, Ms. Jenkins," a cold voice spoke from the doorway of the nursery on Thursday afternoon.
Cameron looked up to see Mrs. Gable standing there, holding a silver tray with a small, blue ceramic bowl and a cup of warm milk. Her expression was neutral, but her eyes were sharp as needles as they tracked Cameron’s hand stroked Leo’s curls.
"It's not strange, Mrs. Gable," Cameron said gently, keeping her voice low so as not to disturb the boy, who was coloring a picture of a blue train. "It's just validation. He spent a year being punished for his grief. He needs to know he’s allowed to feel it."
"He is a Duca," Mrs. Gable said, stepping into the room and placing the tray on the low table. "He does not need to be coddled. He needs to learn discipline. His father is a man of iron, and the boy must grow to be the same if he is to survive."
"He's three years old," Cameron replied, her tone sharpening. "He doesn't need to be iron yet. He needs to be a child."
Mrs. Gable smiled, a thin, bloodless line that didn't reach her eyes. "You are very young, Ms. Jenkins. And very naive. You think because you had a soft childhood in Queens, the rest of the world operates on the same rules. But you are in Matteo Duca's house now. The rules here are written in blood, not therapy speak."
She picked up the cup of milk and held it out toward Leo. "Come, young master. Drink your milk. It has your afternoon supplement in it."
Leo didn't move. He looked at the cup, then up at Cameron, his eyes filled with a sudden, deep-seated reluctance. He shook his head, burying his face in Cameron’s side.
"He doesn't want it, Mrs. Gable," Cameron said, her protective instincts instantly flaring.
"It is a specialized vitamin blend prescribed by his physician, Dr. Mercer," Mrs. Gable said, her voice dropping into a cold, hard register. "To help with his emotional instability. He must drink it. It is his father’s direct order."
Cameron looked at the white liquid. During her nursing clinicals, she had spent months working in pediatric wards. She knew that some children required supplements, but there was a strange, chemical scent beneath the sweet smell of the vanilla milk—something sharp, bitter, and entirely wrong.
"I'll make sure he drinks it in a little while," Cameron said, reaching out and taking the cup from Mrs. Gable’s hand. Her fingers brushed the older woman's, and she felt a sudden, icy chill from the contact. "Thank you, Mrs. Gable."
The head housekeeper stared at her for a long, silent moment, her eyes dark with a calculating anger. "See that he finishes every drop, Ms. Jenkins. If he does not, I will have to inform Mr. Duca that you are neglecting your duties."
With that, she turned and swept out of the room, her long skirt rustling like a dead leaf against the carpet.
Cameron waited until the sound of Mrs. Gable’s footsteps died away down the hall. She looked down at the cup of milk, then at Leo, who was watching her with a strange, solemn intensity.
"Leo," Cameron whispered, kneeling down beside him. "Does this milk make you feel sleepy?"
The little boy didn't speak, but he slowly nodded his head, his tiny fingers rubbing his eyes as if the mere mention of the drink made him tired.
Cameron’s heart hammered against her ribs. She stood up, walked into the adjoining bathroom, and poured a small amount of the milk into a sterile plastic container she had brought from her mother's medical supplies. She hid the container inside the vanity cabinet, then poured the rest of the milk down the drain, rinsing the cup thoroughly.
"No more sleepy milk today, Leo," Cameron said, walking back into the nursery with a bright smile. "Let's go draw some more trains."
That night, the penthouse was dead silent.
Matteo was away on "business"—a word that Cameron had quickly learned meant something dangerous. She sat in her room, the small plastic container of milk sitting on her desk, glowing faintly under the light of her desk lamp.
She needed to get it tested. She had a friend, Marcus, who worked as a lab technician at the New York Presbyterian Hospital. He owed her a favor from their college days, and he had access to the high-tech toxicology labs.
But getting out of the penthouse at night was nearly impossible. The elevators were coded, and the security team, led by a silent, massive man named Marco, monitored every entrance.
Cameron wrapped a dark sweater around her shoulders and crept out into the dark hallway, holding her breath with every step. Her bruised knee was still stiff, but she ignored the pain, keeping her back against the mahogany paneling as she moved toward the service elevator wing.
As she passed the half-open double doors of Matteo’s private study, she heard the low, urgent murmur of voices from inside.
She froze, pressing herself into the deep shadow of an arched alcove.
"The docks in Brooklyn are crawling with feds, Matteo," Marco’s voice was rough, like gravel shifting in a stream. "Someone leaked the shipping manifests for the container ship from Palermo. If they find the shipment, the family is done. We’re talking federal RICO charges."
"Who has access to those manifests, Marco?" Matteo’s voice was cold, a dangerous, quiet growl that sent shivers down Cameron’s spine.
"Only you, me... and the house servers," Marco said. "And we both know Mrs. Gable has been managing the household digital keys since Isabella died. She has access to every server in this penthouse."
"I don't care who she is," Matteo hissed. "If she is the leak, she dies. But I need proof. I cannot move against her without the backing of the Commission, or we face a full-scale turf war with the Lucchese family. Find the source of the digital transmissions. Track the IP addresses. I want a name by tomorrow morning."
Cameron held her breath, her hand clutching the container of milk in her pocket so hard her knuckles turned white.
The leak wasn't just in the business; it was inside the house.
And if Mrs. Gable was working with Matteo's enemies, she wasn't just leaking data. She was doing something much worse.
She was poisoning his son.
"Who's there?"
May you like
The sudden, sharp command shattered the silence.
Cameron's heart leaped into her throat. Before she could run, the heavy mahogany door of the study swung open, and Matteo stood in the frame, his hand resting on the dark leather holster beneath his jacket. His eyes, dark and lethal, swept the corridor, locking onto the shadow where she was hiding.
