Chapter 3 - THE CHILD’S DRAWING
“Leo.”
The name slipped from Dante’s lips like a prayer.
He was on his knees beside me before I could even process what was happening. The untouchable developer didn't care about his custom suit brushing against the dusty floorboards. He reached into the dark vent.
Slowly, the six-year-old boy crawled out.
Leo was Nico’s son. His existence was a fiercely guarded family secret, kept hidden in the estate's private wing since his mother died in childbirth. He was a ghost of a child who rarely spoke, wandering the halls in oversized sweaters.
Right now, he was covered in dust, trembling uncontrollably.
Isabella rushed forward, her face a mask of panicked affection. “Oh my god, Leo! What are you doing in the walls, darling? You scared us!”
She reached for him.
Leo shrank back. He didn’t make a sound, but his face twisted in pure terror. He pressed himself flat against my shoulder, hiding his face in my apron.
He didn't run to Dante. He ran to me.
Dante froze, his hand suspended in the air. He looked at me, a profound confusion mixing with the rage in his eyes.
I wrapped a protective arm around the boy. I knew why Leo had come to me. During my afternoon shifts, when Isabella thought I was dusting the library, I had been sitting on the floor with Leo, teaching him the ASL alphabet.
Because Leo, like my brother, was completely deaf.
Isabella had convinced Dante that Leo was mentally delayed. She told the family he was traumatized and incapable of learning. But he wasn’t. He was just trapped in a world that refused to speak his language.
“Don’t touch him,” Dante snarled at Isabella, rising to his feet.
Dante looked down at the boy, then tapped my shoulder. “Ask him why he was in the walls.”
I gently pulled Leo back. I caught his eye, keeping my face soft and reassuring. My hands moved quickly, signing the question.
Why hide?
Leo sniffled. His small, dirty hands came up.
Bad lady, he signed, pointing a trembling finger straight at Isabella. She said I have to sleep like Daddy.
My heart stopped.
I looked up at Dante. “He says Isabella told him he would have to go to sleep like his father.”
The dining room erupted into shocked whispers. The guests could no longer pretend this was just a lover's quarrel. This was a hostile takeover from the inside.
“He’s making it up!” Isabella shrieked, dropping the sweet voice entirely. “He’s a disturbed orphan, Dante! You know he hasn't been right since Nico passed!”
“He’s six,” Dante said, his voice vibrating with lethal intent. “And he’s deaf. He didn’t learn how to frame you for murder on his own.”
Leo tugged on my apron again. He un-crumpled the piece of paper in his hands and pressed it into my palm.
I unfolded it.
It was a child’s drawing, done in heavy red and black crayon.
It showed a stick figure lying on a bed. Standing over the bed was a woman with blonde hair—Isabella.
But she wasn't alone.
Next to her was a large man. And in the man's hand was a black needle.
“Mr. Moretti,” I said, my voice cutting through the tension.
Dante turned.
I held up the drawing. “Leo didn’t just see Isabella leave the room. He saw them inside. She wasn't alone.”
Isabella’s face went chalk-white. The realization hit the room like a physical blow. Isabella wasn't the mastermind. She was an accomplice.
“Who?” Dante demanded, stepping toward Isabella, his composure finally breaking. “Who was in that room with you, Isabella?”
Before she could answer, the heavy dining room doors pushed open.
Standing in the doorway was Vincenzo, Dante’s head of security. The man Dante trusted with his life.
Vincenzo stood in the doorway, his broad shoulders filling the frame. He wore his usual tailored black suit, his face carved out of granite.
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And hanging from his massive fingers was a gold pocket watch.
The exact watch my father had pawned three months ago to pay for his pain medication.
