Chapter 2
Vincent did not question Dominic immediately.
That surprised everyone.
Dominic expected rage.
He expected a beating.
Perhaps worse.
Instead, Vincent left him alone in a stone-walled wine room beneath the estate with one guard outside and no explanation.
Fear grew better in silence.
Vincent spent the next hour with Leo.
Not interrogating him.
Watching.
The boy flinched when someone moved too fast near the doorway.
He covered his ears when a glass fell downstairs.
When Vincent raised his arm to remove his own jacket, Leo’s shoulders tightened.
Vincent stopped mid-motion.
Emma saw it.
He lowered his hand slowly.
“How long?”
Emma whispered:
“About two months.”
Vincent looked at her.
“You noticed two months ago.”
“Yes.”
“And said nothing to me.”
“I told you I tried.”
“You tried twice.”
“Yes.”
“Why stop?”
Emma’s eyes hardened.
“Because the second time Peter told me if I kept accusing family members without proof, I would lose my position.”
Vincent stared.
“I would never allow that.”
“I know that now.”
The answer hurt.
Not because Emma blamed him.
Because she had not known whether she could trust him enough to survive telling him.
That failure belonged partly to him.
“What happened two months ago?”
Emma looked toward Leo sleeping beside them.
“Sofia’s old music box disappeared.”
Vincent frowned.
“What music box?”
“The blue one.”
He remembered.
Sofia had kept a small wooden music box from childhood.
After Leo was born, she placed it in his nursery.
A carved moon on the lid.
Soft piano melody.
Leo slept to it every night until Sofia died.
Vincent had assumed Emma eventually stored it away.
“You didn’t remove it?”
“No.”
“Who did?”
“I don’t know.”
“And after it disappeared?”
“Leo started waking at night.”
“What did he say?”
“Someone was singing Mommy’s song.”
Vincent’s eyes narrowed.
“Sofia’s lullaby?”
Emma nodded.
“Who knew it?”
“Anyone who lived here long enough.”
That was too many people.
Sofia sang it openly.
At family dinners.
In the garden.
Sometimes when Leo became restless during receptions.
Vincent stood.
“Show me Dominic’s history with Leo.”
Emma hesitated.
“What does that mean?”
“Every time he was alone with my son.”
“I don’t know every time.”
“Then what you know.”
Emma thought.
“Dominic began coming to the nursery after Sofia died.”
“Why?”
“He said he was checking on Leo for you.”
Vincent’s face hardened.
“I never asked him.”
“I figured that out later.”
“How often?”
“At first once a week.”
“And now?”
“Sometimes every day.”
Vincent’s hand tightened.
“What did he do?”
“Mostly talked.”
“To a baby.”
“He would sit beside the crib.”
“About?”
“I couldn’t hear.”
“You never went in?”
“He told me it was family time.”
Vincent almost laughed.
Dominic had created a private ritual around his child.
Inside Vincent’s own house.
“Anything else?”
Emma looked toward the door.
“One night I saw him holding Leo’s wrist.”
Vincent stared.
“Hard?”
“Yes.”
“What did you do?”
“I took Leo away.”
“Dominic?”
“He told me children need to learn who is family and who is staff.”
Vincent’s eyes became cold.
“Meaning him above you.”
“Yes.”
Emma paused.
“Two weeks later, Leo started calling him Sir.”
Vincent went still.
Leo never called adults Sir unless taught.
“Who taught him?”
“Dominic said he thought it was funny.”
Vincent looked toward his sleeping son.
Not funny.
Training.
Hierarchy.
Submission.
Old Moretti habits.
His father had used similar methods when Vincent was young.
Not on babies.
On boys old enough to understand fear.
A raised hand meant silence.
A finger pointed at the floor meant kneel.
Two taps against a table meant leave the room without question.
Vincent had forgotten most of it deliberately.
Until Leo crouched.
“What else?”
Emma swallowed.
“Three nights ago, I heard Leo crying.”
“And?”
“I went in.”
“Dominic?”
“No.”
Vincent looked at her.
“Who?”
“I didn’t see his face.”
His body became still.
“A man was standing near the balcony door.”
“Inside Leo’s room.”
“Yes.”
“Describe him.”
“Tall. Older.”
“Clothing?”
“Dark coat.”
“Anything else?”
Emma hesitated.
“His left hand.”
“What?”
“Two fingers were missing.”
Vincent’s blood went cold.
Matteo Moretti had lost two fingers in a machine accident when Vincent was a teenager.
The official story was famous inside the family because Matteo joked that God had charged him for arrogance.
Vincent looked toward the black family pin.
“No.”
Emma stared.
“You know him.”
Vincent did not answer immediately.
Matteo had died nineteen years ago.
Or everyone had accepted that he did.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I thought I imagined it.”
“You saw his hand.”
“I saw a man for maybe two seconds. The lights were low.”
“Then?”
“He went through the balcony door.”
“Guards?”
“Nobody saw him.”
Vincent turned toward the windows.
His son’s room stood on the second floor.
The balcony connected to a stone terrace and climbing vines along the eastern wall.
Someone familiar with the estate could enter.
He looked at Emma again.
“Why were you in Leo’s room at three in the morning?”
“He screamed.”
Vincent nodded.
Then Emma added:
“And because Sofia told me never to let him sleep alone after she died.”
Vincent turned sharply.
“What?”
Emma immediately regretted speaking too fast.
“Sofia said what?”
Emma looked at the floor.
Vincent stepped closer.
“My wife knew she was going to die?”
“No.”
“Then why would she say after she died?”
Emma did not answer.
“Emma.”
May you like
She whispered:
“Because Sofia knew someone wanted her dead.”
