THE ESTATE OF SHADOWS

I stared at Rico Moretti, the cold marble of his restaurant pressing into my knees.

He didn't look like a mob boss in that moment.

He looked like a drowning man who had just been thrown a life raft by a stranger.

"Miss Vance," he repeated, his voice thick with a desperation he was trying desperately to hide. "What would it take for you to come back tomorrow?"

I looked at Leo.

The little boy was still holding my index finger, his dark eyes heavy with exhaustion. The panic had drained out of him, leaving behind a fragile, quiet shell.

My mind raced.

I thought about my overdue rent. I thought about the eviction notice taped to my apartment door. I thought about my younger brother, Evan, eating instant ramen for the fourth night in a row because I didn't have forty dollars to send him for groceries.

"I need my job here," I said quietly, keeping my voice low so I wouldn't startle Leo. "I need my tips. I can't afford to be a full-time babysitter, Mr. Moretti."

Rico didn't hesitate.

"I will triple your monthly salary at the restaurant. You won't carry a single tray. You will come to my home. You will stay with Leo during the day, and you will help him at night."

Marco, the restaurant manager, gasped behind us. "Mr. Moretti, she is completely unqualified—"

"Marco," Rico said, without turning his head. "If you speak again, you will be looking for a new career."

Marco went dead silent.

Rico returned his gaze to me.

"My driver will pick you up at eight tomorrow morning. Bring whatever you need."

That was how I found myself standing in front of a sprawling, iron-gated estate in Brooklyn Heights the following morning.

The house was a massive stone fortress, surrounded by high walls and security cameras. Dante Russo, the massive head of security whose thumb Leo had bitten the night before, was waiting for me at the front door.

His thumb was wrapped in white gauze.

"Miss Vance," Dante said, his voice a deep, gravelly rumble. "The boss is in his study. Leo is in the playroom."

I clutched the strap of my cheap canvas tote bag.

"Is he okay today?"

"He hasn't spoken since you left," Dante said flatly.

Dante led me through the foyer.

I expected the house to be a shrine to Rico's late wife. I expected oil paintings of Elena Moretti, silver-framed photographs on the grand piano, and her favorite flowers in crystal vases.

But the house was completely, devastatingly bare.

The walls were blank. The mantelpieces were empty. There was not a single photograph, not a single feminine touch. It looked like a luxury hotel that had never been lived in.

"Where is all her stuff?" I whispered before I could stop myself.

Dante stopped walking. He looked at me, his eyes dark and unreadable.

"The boss had it all boxed up and moved to storage the day after the funeral," Dante said. "He said seeing her face was making the boy cry."

I frowned.

I knew about grief. When our father walked out on us, my mother hadn't boxed up his things—she had burned them. But completely erasing a mother from a child's home didn't stop the crying. It only made the child feel like their parent had never existed at all.

"He shouldn't have done that," I said.

"You're here to watch the kid, Clara," a new, smooth voice echoed down the hallway. "Not to critique the interior decorating."

I turned.

An older man stepped out of a nearby doorway. He was in his late fifties, wearing a pristine tailored suit. His silver hair was swept back perfectly, and he leaned slightly on a silver-handled cane. He smelled heavily of expensive sandalwood cologne and cigar smoke.

"I'm Carmine," the man said, offering a smile that didn't reach his cold eyes. "Rico's uncle. I handle the family's... legitimate investments."

I didn't like him.

It was an instant, visceral reaction. My stomach tightened, the same way it used to when bill collectors banged on our apartment door in the middle of the night.

"Clara," I said, keeping my hands at my sides.

"I know who you are," Carmine said smoothly. "Rico thinks you have a magic touch. I think you got lucky with a sleepy toddler. Do me a favor, Clara. Keep the boy quiet, collect your generous paycheck, and don't snoop."

Before I could answer, Dante stepped between us.

"I'll take her to Leo, Carmine," Dante said. It wasn't a request.

Carmine smirked, tapping his cane against the hardwood floor. "Of course, Dante. Good luck, Clara."

Dante led me up the grand staircase.

"Don't mind Carmine," Dante muttered as we reached the second floor. "He's been stressed since the... incident. He and Elena didn't see eye to eye."

"Why not?"

"She asked too many questions," Dante said. And that was the end of the conversation.

He opened the heavy oak door to Leo's playroom.

Leo was sitting in the center of a massive, fluffy rug, surrounded by hundreds of expensive, untouched toys. Remote-control cars, wooden train sets, towering blocks.

He wasn't playing with any of them.

He was staring at the wall.

"Hi, Leo," I said softly, stepping into the room.

Leo blinked. He turned his head, his dark eyes locking onto mine.

He didn't smile, but his shoulders visibly relaxed. He stood up, walked past a mountain of expensive toys, and stopped right in front of me.

He reached out and grabbed my index finger.

My heart broke all over again.

"Do you want to play?" I asked gently, kneeling down to his level.

Leo shook his head.

"No play," he whispered.

"What do you want to do?"

Leo looked nervously toward the open doorway where Dante stood. Then he leaned in, pressing his little face close to my ear.

"Hide," he whispered.

I frowned. "Hide from who, Leo?"

Leo didn't answer. Instead, he pulled my finger, dragging me toward a large, walk-in closet at the back of the playroom.

I glanced at Dante, who gave a slight shrug.

I followed Leo into the closet. It was filled with tiny designer suits and perfectly organized shoes. But Leo didn't stop. He crawled all the way to the back corner, pulling aside a heavy stack of winter blankets.

Hidden beneath the blankets was a small, ornate silver music box.

It was the only piece of Elena Moretti left in this entire house.

I recognized the craftsmanship. It was antique, heavily tarnished, with tiny silver roses carved into the lid.

Leo sat back on his heels, pointing at the box.

"Mommy song," he whispered.

I knelt beside him. "Can I open it?"

Leo nodded.

I gently lifted the heavy silver lid. A soft, hauntingly beautiful lullaby began to play. A tiny ballerina spun in the center of the velvet-lined interior.

But as the music played, I noticed something strange.

The velvet lining on the bottom of the box was loose. One corner was slightly raised.

I reached out, gently pressing my fingernail under the edge of the velvet. It lifted easily, revealing a hidden, shallow compartment beneath the music box floor.

My breath caught in my throat.

Tucked inside the hidden drawer was a torn, jagged half of a photograph.

I carefully pulled it out.

It was a picture of Elena Moretti. She was smiling, looking over her shoulder. But someone had violently torn the photograph in half.

On the torn edge, visible right next to Elena's face, was a man's hand resting on her shoulder.

And on that man's hand was a very distinct, custom-made gold ring bearing a crest.

I had just seen that exact same ring five minutes ago.

It was on the hand of Rico's uncle, Carmine.

Before I could even process what that meant, Leo grabbed my wrist, his little body trembling violently. He stared at the torn photograph, his eyes wide with absolute, paralyzing terror.