Chapter 4 - Shadows in the West WingThe transition from the cramped, damp basement staff quarters to the sprawling luxury of the west wing felt like stepping into another dimension. The guest suite assigned to Emma and me featured high ceilings, cream-colored silk drapes, a marble fireplace, and a plush king-sized bed adorned with imported Egyptian cotton linens.
For the first two days, I walked on eggshells, half-expecting the other housekeepers to glare at me with resentment. Instead, Mrs. Gable, the veteran head housekeeper who had ruled the estate with an iron fist for thirty years, bowed her head respectfully when she passed me in the hallway, offering a warm, knowing smile.
"Mr. Moretti has given strict instructions, Miss Annie," Mrs. Gable told me on Tuesday morning as she handed me a set of heavy, antique brass keys. "These open the private archive rooms behind the main library. You are the only person other than the Don himself authorized to cross that threshold."
That afternoon, I sat at a massive walnut desk in the private archive, surrounded by towering shelves of ancient leather-bound ledgers, hand-drawn maps of New York harbor from the 1920s, and stacks of yellowed correspondence. Emma was sitting on a thick Persian rug nearby, happily coloring in a picture book Alessandro had had delivered that morning—a massive, deluxe edition of fairy tales with gold-gilt edges.
The door to the archive stood ajar, letting in a sliver of light from the hallway.
As I flipped through a ledger detailing the dock strikes of 1974, a faint sound caught my attention. It wasn't the creak of the old floorboards or the distant hum of the estate's climate control system. It was a sharp, metallic click—the distinct sound of a master key turning in a deadbolt.
I froze. I looked over at Emma. She was still absorbed in her coloring book, humming a little tune to herself.
Slowly, I stood up from the desk, my heart beginning to hammer against my ribs. I crept toward the heavy oak door, peering out into the dimly lit corridor of the west wing.
The hallway was empty.
I stepped out onto the Persian runner, my eyes scanning the polished mahogany wainscoting. Just ten feet down the hall, the concealed service door leading to the rear stairwell—a door that was supposed to be permanently bolted shut from the inside—was standing ajar by two inches. A cool draft of air drifted through the gap, carrying the faint, unmistakable scent of expensive Turkish tobacco.
Tobaccos that none of the regular Moretti guards smoked.
"Annie?"
I jumped, spinning around. Alessandro was standing at the end of the corridor, having just emerged from his private study. He wore a dark gray button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up, looking tired but alert. He noticed the tension in my posture instantly.
"What is it?" he asked, closing the distance between us in three long strides.
"Someone was out here," I whispered, pointing toward the service door. "I heard a lock turn. The service stairwell door is open."
Alessandro’s face hardened into a mask of pure ice. Without a word, he drew a suppressed semi-automatic pistol from a concealed holster beneath his waistband, motioning for me to stay back.
He moved with the silent, deadly grace of a panther, pushing the service door wide open and disappearing down the winding stone staircase.
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I held my breath, terrified, listening for the sound of gunfire. A minute later, heavy footsteps echoed up the stairs. Alessandro reappeared, his expression dark as thunder. He was holding a discarded item between his thumb and forefinger: a silver cigarette case bearing the crest of the Falcone family—the most ruthless rival syndicate in Chicago.
"They're inside the perimeter," Alessandro said, his voice cold enough to shatter glass. "The Falcones have breached our security."
