Chapter 3 - The Cold Marble Cage
The gates of the Lake Forest estate opened like the iron jaws of a dormant beast. Tall wrought-iron spikes vanished into an arch of weeping willows, giving way to a driveway of crushed limestone that crunched softly beneath the armored Mercedes. Ahead, the manor loomed: neoclassical limestone, grand fluted pillars, and tall, uncurtained French windows casting pale golden light across manicured lawns.
It was a palace, but the air around it felt dead.
Inside the foyer, white Carrara marble stretched out underfoot, polished to such a sheen that it mirrored the enormous crystal chandelier suspended from the dome above. Yet there were no fresh flowers on the tables, no stray books resting on the armchairs, no warmth lingering in the corridors. Everything was pristine, curated, and silent.
A middle-aged woman dressed in a crisp black housekeeper’s uniform waited at the foot of the spiral staircase. Her silver-streaked hair was pinned into a severe chignon, her spine as stiff as a soldier’s.
“Master Matteo,” she began smoothly, bowing her head. “The nursery has been prepped as you requested, though the nurse on duty warned that young Leo refused his evening bottle—”
She stopped. Her gaze shifted from Matteo to the bundle tucked against my chest, and then slowly rose to my face.
The color drained from her cheeks so rapidly I thought she might collapse onto the marble. She staggered back half a pace, her hand flying to her mouth to stifle an involuntary gasp.
“Signora Sofia…” she whispered, her voice trembling.
“Her name is Elina, Mrs. Gable,” Matteo cut in, his tone warning and sharp as broken glass. “She is Leo’s caregiver. Do not confuse the two again.”
“Forgive me, sir,” the housekeeper said quickly, though her hands shook visibly against the seams of her apron. She couldn’t tear her eyes away from the dimple on my cheek, the curve of my jawline, or the way my dark hair fell across my forehead. “I... of course. Follow me, please.”
Matteo turned to me. The harsh lines of his face seemed carved from the same limestone that built his house. “The east wing belongs to Leo and you. No one enters without my permission. But make no mistake, Elina: this property is guarded by thirty-two armed men and two dozen motion grids. If you think about leaving with or without my son before my men verify your identity, you won’t make it past the tree line.”
“I’m not a kidnapper, Mr. Moretti,” I said, keeping my voice steady despite the flutter in my ribs. “I’m here because your son needed to sleep, not because I have any desire to play dress-up in your mausoleum.”
A flicker of surprise flashed in his dark eyes—perhaps no one had spoken to him like that in years—before his jaw tightened and he turned on his heel toward his study without another word.
Upstairs, the nursery was a vast, cavernous room done in muted dove-gray and cream. Toys sat aligned on shelves in military precision, unused and untouched. In the corner stood a hand-carved mahogany crib lined with silk sheets.
When I tried to gently lower Leo onto the mattress, his tiny face screwed up immediately. His eyes fluttered, his lips parted in a quivering whimper, and his hands reached blindly into the empty air, searching for the warmth he had just tasted.
“He won’t sleep alone,” Mrs. Gable murmured from the doorway, her voice subdued. “He hasn’t slept through the night since the explosion. For over a year, this house has known only his weeping. It breaks the master’s soul, though he would never permit anyone to see it.”
I looked at the woman, sensing the deep loyalty—and deep grief—that hung over her. “How long were they married?”
“Three years,” she said softly. “Lady Sofia brought light into this home. When she vanished into smoke, the light died with her. Master Matteo became ruthless. Unforgiving. And Leo... Leo became the ghost of everything he lost.”
I sighed, sitting down on the plush velvet chaise lounge near the window, carefully tucking Leo against my chest once more. Almost instantly, the baby’s whimpers dissolved into deep, even breaths. His warm forehead rested against my neck, and with every rise and fall of his tiny ribcage, the tension that had gripped my shoulders began to uncoil.
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I didn't know who Sofia was to this city, or why fate had carved my face from the same mold as hers. But holding this motherless child, feeling his heartbeat steady against mine, I realized that beneath the diamonds, the bodyguards, and the marble walls, this boy was just like me when I was in the orphanage: small, lonely, and praying for someone to stay until morning.
“Bring me a blanket, Mrs. Gable,” I said softly, resting my cheek against Leo’s soft blond curls. “He won’t be sleeping in that crib tonight.”
