Chapter 2 - The Whispers in the Kitchen
The copper pots hanging above the kitchen island caught the amber glow of the wall-mounted sconces, throwing long, shivering shadows across the white tile. Outside, the rain beat against the leaded glass windows of the Moretti estate like a desperate fist, but inside, the air was heavy with the scent of cinnamon tea and damp wool.
Dante Moretti crossed his arms, his broad chest straining the dark fabric of his tailored vest. He looked down at Clara Bell. Her lower lip trembled ever so slightly, a single tear cutting a clean trail through the flour dust on her cheek.
"She makes me nervous," Clara had repeated, her voice dropping to a fragile whisper that barely carried over the hum of the refrigerator.
"Be specific, Clara," Dante instructed. His voice was flat, devoid of the irritation he actually felt. He had spent three hours in the study reviewing shipping manifests with his legal team; he had no patience for domestic friction.
Clara wrung a dish towel between her hands, twisting the cotton until her knuckles turned ivory. "It’s not just that she doesn't talk to the staff, Mr. Moretti. It’s... it’s how she looks at things. This afternoon, while you were on the phone with the dock supervisors, she stood by the nursery window for twenty minutes. She wasn't holding Leo. She wasn't singing to him. She was just... staring down at the courtyard. Like she was measuring the distance."
"Measuring the distance to what?"
"The gates," Clara said, her eyes wide and dark with genuine dread. "And later, when I went to change Leo's linens, I found her scalpels."
Dante’s eyes narrowed. "Her scalpels?"
"In her leather medical case, tucked under her winter coats in the hall closet. I only moved it to sweep behind the baseboards. They weren't packed away, Mr. Moretti. They were cleaned. Polished. Laid out on a velvet roll, like she was... like she was waiting to use them."
Dante didn't answer right away. He remembered Vivienne Cross standing before the tall library windows during the thunderstorm two nights ago. He remembered her cold, colorless gray eyes tracking the movement of the armed patrols crossing the grounds.
She watches everything.
"She is a former surgeon, Clara," Dante said carefully, his tone measured. "Surgeons are methodical. They keep their instruments clean."
"She’s not practicing medicine anymore," Clara whispered, stepping closer, her voice thick with the desperation of someone trying to save a drowning man. "Her license was revoked, sir. The papers said she was reckless. They said she let a man die on her table because she had a grudge against the attending physician. People like that... they don't stop being dangerous just because they put down the scalpel. And she’s around Leo every single day."
Dante felt a cold, heavy knot tighten in his gut.
Leo was his blood. Leo was the only piece of his late brother Marco that remained in this brutal, unforgiving world. If Vivienne Cross—the daughter of his fiercest rival, a woman forced upon him by a political marriage of convenience—was using the nursery as a vantage point for something sinister, Dante needed to know before the wedding bells rang in three weeks.
"Leave it," Dante said quietly.
"Mr. Moretti—"
"Leave the medical case alone, Clara. And don't speak of this to the guards. If Miss Cross is plotting anything, I want her to think no one is watching."
Clara looked down, a flicker of something unreadable passing through her expressive brown eyes before she nodded obediently. "Of course, sir. I only care about the baby. You know that."
"I know," Dante murmured, turning away. "Go to bed, Clara."
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As Dante walked back toward the east wing, he told himself he was being cautious. He told himself that a mob boss who didn't suspect his enemies was a dead mob boss.
He had no way of knowing that Clara Bell was standing motionless by the kitchen sink, watching his retreating back with a smile that completely vanished the moment he turned the corner.
