The sun had fallen behind the marble walls of the Moretti estate, but the chill had not.
In spite of being wrapped in a silk robe and guided by soft hallway lamps, I could not shake the chill trailing down my spine or the maid's words from earlier that day.
"The last woman to marry him. didn't make it through her wedding week."
Her voice still rang in my head, haunted and weak, and I didn't miss her eyes darting nervously around as though she feared someone was listening.
I didn't push for questions. Not yet. You don't survive the life I've led by acting blind.
You wait, you observe, and when the moment is right… you strike.
It was the same maid sofia, she'd whispered now leading me through the upstairs corridors of the mansion, pointing out which doors I wasn't to enter and which were acceptable for me to use.
"This is the study," she said softly, pausing before a set of tall wooden doors, "Don Moretti prefers no one enter without his invitation."
Noted.
And below is the dining hall, dinner is at eight sharp, if you're late. he notices."
I gave her a tense smile, "You sound like you've been here a while."
She hesitated, eyes flicking toward the floor. "Too long."
I didn't have time to ask more before she turned and kept moving.
dinner was a performance.
Dante sat at the end of the long mahogany table, black shirt sleeves rolled up to his forearms, knife slicing through his steak with measured precision, everything about him the way he chewed, the way his eyes swept was controlled, cold and calculated.
I sat to his right, far enough for formality, close enough to remind everyone I now bore his ring.
The servants moved like ghosts, silently pouring wine and serving food.
"You didn't eat much at the reception," Dante said without looking at me.
"I wasn't hungry."
"Now?"
I met his gaze, "still not."
A pause, he cuts into his meat again
"You'll find things are easier here when you follow the rhythm, resistance… tends to complicate things."
I leaned slightly forwar,. "I've never been good at rhythm."
He smirked. "You'll learn"
The way he said it sent something cold crawling down my arms.
The rest of the meal passed in sharp, subtle exchanges a word here, a look there, he was watching me, testing me, trying to figure out where I'd break
But I wouldn't break, not yet and not for him.
After dinner, Dante vanished no explanation, no "good night," just silence and the echo of his footsteps down the hall.
Sofia returned surreptitiously to deliver me to my room.
"He's. different at night," she whispered.
"How do you mean?"
She hesitated, "Just. lock your door. Please."
My bedroom was beautiful too beautiful, vaulted ceilings, velvet drapes, antique mirrors, candlelight, like a dream.
Or a trap, I guess.
I waited until the house was still, until even the wind outside had died down, before I crept out of bed.
I padded barefoot across the chilled floors, careful not to let the wood creak underfoot, the silk nightgown whispering softly against my body as I glided into the hallway, each nerve on edge.
I wasn't lost, I was searching.
The mansion had secrets I could feel them in the walls.
I passed by Dante's study shut, a music room, an indoor garden, a second stairway, all quiet.
Until I found the door.
It was small, at the end of a hallway that curved behind the guest wing. Unmarked, unnoticed.
The knob wouldn't turn when I tried it
locked.
But something about it felt… Wrong.
As if it had been closed deliberately, As if something or somebody — had lived there before.
A subtle flower smell hung close to the wood. Perfume.
I knelt, my ear pressed to the door.
Silence.
Then… a noise. Faint. Hardly discernible.
A slow groan, like something moving behind the wall, a drawer? A chair?
I jumped up quickly, heart racing.
Footsteps, Heavy, coming from the other hall.
I jumped back and skimmed behind a column just as the shadow appeared.
Dante.
Still clad in black, quiet but confident in his movements, He passed directly by the locked door and down the hall, hesitating for barely a moment.
His head turned.
I didn't breathe.
His eyes searched the corridor, then tightened.
He knew.
He knew someone was out here.
He didn't speak. Didn't yell. Simply walked to the door, reached into his jacket… and pulled out a key.
He unlocked the door.
Slipped in.
And locked it behind him.
When I snuck forward minutes later, the hallway was empty. But something had changed.
There, just below the doorframe, was a faint red smudge.
Not wine.
Not paint.
Lipstick?
And beside it… a pale gold hairpin with one initial engraved upon it.
L.
the last wife? I wondered