Chapter 2 - Footsteps in the Gallery
We moved through the massive double doors in absolute silence. The interior of the Moretti estate was a cathedral of wealth—polished marble floors reflecting crystal chandeliers, oil paintings of ancestors who had built our empire on imported oil and imported blood, and priceless antiques lining the long hallways.
Usually, this house felt like a monument to my power. Tonight, it felt like a tomb.
“Take Harper to the kitchen,” I instructed a maid who materialized out of the shadows, looking pale and terrified at the sight of her boss standing dripping wet in the foyer with a child in his arms. “Get her warm milk, dry clothes, and lock the pantry door from the inside. Do not let anyone in. Not Victoria. Not Victor. No one.”
“Yes, Mr. Moretti,” the woman stammered, gently taking Harper from my arms. The little girl clung to my lapel for one extra second before letting go, her big eyes searching my face.
“I’ll be right back, Harper,” I promised her.
As the kitchen doors swung shut, Dante stepped up beside me, holding a heavy ring of brass and titanium keys. “The west wing staircase is through the portrait gallery. The old wine cellar entrance is at the very bottom, past the coal chutes.”
“Lead the way,” I said.
Our footsteps echoed softly against the stone floor as we descended into the older, colder part of the mansion. This wing had been built in the late nineteenth century by the founding patriarchs—men who knew that keeping secrets required architecture designed to swallow sound. The air grew damp, smelling of old dust, limestone, and the faint, sweet scent of rotting cork.
As we approached the heavy iron-reinforced wooden door that led down to the sub-basement levels, a soft sound drifted up from the darkness below.
*Tap. Pause. Tap.*
It was the exact rhythm Harper had described on the steps.
Dante’s hand dropped fully to his weapon, the safety clicking off with a crisp, metallic snap. “Boss... someone’s down there.”
“Or something,” I muttered, pulling a heavy tactical flashlight from my belt and clicking it on. The blinding beam cut through the gloom, illuminating the steep concrete steps leading down into the pitch-black abyss.
We descended side by side, our boots silent on the stone. At the bottom of the stairs stood the steel door—a vault-style bulkhead fitted with a modern digital keypad and a manual deadbolt lock.
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And right there, smeared in dark, dried rust or blood across the reinforced steel, was a small handprint.
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