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Chapter 4 - Chapter Four: The East Wing

Aria hadn't slept again.

She tried. For hours, she lay in the massive bed with its dark velvet sheets, staring at the ceiling and listening to the hum of the city muffled by thick bulletproof glass. But even exhaustion couldn't quiet her mind.

What Luca said wouldn't stop echoing in her head.

Dominic Moretti. Head of the Moretti syndicate. A man feared in cities she'd never stepped foot in. A man with a reputation wrapped in violence and veiled in mystery.

And he'd brought her here. To this fortress.

The same man who had knelt beside her broken body in the rain and carried her away from death.

She didn't know what to make of him. One minute, he was cold and unreadable. The next, he was… something else. Something oddly careful. Not soft, but not cruel either. Just dangerous in a way that felt deliberate.

It was nearly five in the morning when Aria finally got up. She pulled on a soft black hoodie someone had left folded on the dresser and padded into the hallway. The mansion—or whatever this place was—was still and silent. Everything was dim, the only light coming from the faint orange glow of streetlights beyond the glass walls.

Curiosity tugged at her.

He'd said not to go near the east wing. Which, of course, was exactly where she was headed.

She crept down the hallway, heart pounding harder with every step. The doors here were different. Older. Heavier. The artwork on the walls wasn't decorative—it was intimidating. Stark oil paintings of faceless figures, blood reds and bruised blues, all twisted into surreal nightmares.

Whatever secrets Dominic was keeping, they were buried behind these doors.

She paused at the end of the hall where a tall black door stood slightly ajar.

She didn't mean to open it. Not really.

But her hand was already on the knob.

She pushed.

The door creaked as it opened slowly into darkness. She stepped inside and froze. It wasn't a bedroom. Or an office.

It was a shrine.

Photos covered the far wall. Dozens of them. Some old and yellowed, others recent. All black and white. A woman with striking cheekbones and long, dark hair featured in many of them. Her face repeated over and over, always unsmiling.

There were newspaper clippings too. Headlines in languages Aria didn't recognize. A few photos were crossed out. Red ink slashed across their faces. Some had writing in the margins. Code, maybe.

In the center of the room was a large mahogany desk covered in files. She didn't recognize the names, but one folder was labeled in bold letters: Camille S. Moretti.

Her fingers brushed the corner of the file before a voice behind her made her freeze.

"I told you not to come in here."

Dominic stood in the doorway. His voice wasn't raised. It didn't need to be.

Aria turned slowly. Her stomach knotted at the look on his face—tight jaw, unreadable eyes. A storm just beneath the surface.

"I couldn't sleep," she said quietly.

"That's not an excuse."

"I wasn't trying to snoop," she lied.

He stepped into the room. "Then why touch the file?"

She swallowed hard. "Who is she?"

Dominic was silent for a moment. Then he walked past her, closed the file, and stared down at it for a long beat.

"She was my sister."

The words hung in the air.

"Was?"

"She's dead."

Aria felt her breath catch. "I'm sorry."

Dominic nodded once but didn't meet her eyes. "She was killed five years ago. In Paris. She got involved with the wrong people. Trusted the wrong men."

He finally looked at her. "Men like me."

There was pain behind his expression, raw and unspoken. Not the kind you could cry out. The kind you buried under layers of rage.

"She's why you saved me," Aria whispered.

"She's why I didn't leave you to die."

The distinction struck her.

Dominic turned and left the room without another word.

Aria followed, guilt sinking into her chest.

But before she could speak again, her foot struck something cold.

She looked down and found a gun. Small, black, and definitely loaded. Someone had dropped it just outside the east wing.

Her breath hitched.

Someone else had been here.

She picked it up and turned toward the hallway.

Dominic was already walking away.

"Wait," she called.

He turned.

She held up the gun. "This isn't yours, is it?"

His eyes darkened. He moved fast, closing the distance in seconds. He took the weapon from her hand, examining it. Then he opened the magazine.

"Too new," he muttered. "This isn't mine."

"You said this place was secure."

"It is."

"Then how—?"

He cut her off. "Stay in your room. Now."

He was already dialing someone on his phone, his voice tense as he disappeared around the corner.

Aria stood alone in the hallway, her pulse thudding in her ears.

Someone had been inside the east wing. Someone who dropped a gun without making a sound.

And that someone had gotten out without being seen.

She turned slowly and walked back to her room, but a sharp chill settled over her. No matter how thick the walls were, no matter how many guards Dominic posted at the gate, the truth was becoming clearer:

She wasn't safe here.

Not from the outside world.

And not from the ghosts inside this house.

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