Chapter Seven: Whispers in the Halls

The Moretti mansion woke early. By the time sunrise filtered through the lofty windows, the hallways were already alive with the gentle cadence of staff—shoes on marble, pots clattering faintly in the kitchen, and hushed whispers floating through the corridors.

Isabella lingered on the grand staircase’s landing, her silk robe pooling around her feet. She listened. The house breathed. And if she listened properly, it might reveal its secrets.

She descended slowly, trailing her hand along the banister. It was cool, polished, unyielding. Like everything in this house, it had been built to impress and intimidate. She wondered how many generations of Morettis had passed through these halls, how many whispers had been silenced within these walls.

The scent of garlic and strong coffee led her into the kitchen. Maria stood at the counter, sleeves rolled up, her hands dusted with flour. She kneaded dough with the calm resolve of someone who had weathered storms far greater than flour and water.

“Good morning, Signora,” Maria greeted, her smile pleasant but her eyes sharp, missing nothing.

“Please,” Isabella said softly, sliding onto a stool at the counter. “Call me Isabella.”

Maria hesitated before nodding once. “Isabella, then.”

The name sounded different in her mouth—heavier, almost maternal. Isabella’s throat tightened, but she disguised the feeling with a polite smile. She watched Maria’s hands, steady and sure, strong from years of labor.

“You’ve been here a long time, haven’t you?” Isabella asked.

“Twenty years.” Maria’s voice was tinged with pride and a quiet ache. “I raised Damian in this kitchen, fed him when no one else remembered he was a boy, not just a Moretti.”

That caught Isabella’s attention. She leaned in, careful, casual. “What was he like?”

Maria’s hands stilled for a heartbeat. “Stubborn. Quiet. Always watching. He has not changed much.” Then her eyes flicked up, pinning Isabella with a sudden sharpness. “And he does not forgive.”

The warning hummed between them like an exposed wire.

Isabella forced a soft laugh, pretending the words hadn’t chilled her. “Then I’ll have to be very careful not to offend him.”

Maria hummed in reply, her expression unreadable. But Isabella knew she had been handed truth wrapped in warning.

---

Later that morning, Isabella strolled into the east wing. The staff moved with quiet efficiency, their voices hushed, their eyes lowered. When she passed, most averted their gaze, already trained not to linger on the master’s new wife.

Isabella softened her smile, slowed her steps, let her presence seem harmless, approachable. She had worn masks her entire life, but this one—sweet, uncertain bride—was the most dangerous of all.

“Excuse me,” she said gently to a young maid carrying linens.

The girl froze, wide-eyed, as though she’d been caught stealing.

“I’m sorry,” Isabella continued, lowering her voice, offering reassurance in her tone. “I keep getting lost. What rooms are in this wing?”

The maid hesitated, biting her lip. Finally, she stammered, “The… the study, Signora. And Signore Moretti’s office. Below is the wine cellar.”

Isabella smiled warmly, reaching out to lightly touch the girl’s arm. “Thank you. I’ll never remember without help.”

The girl flushed, ducked her head, and hurried away. Isabella watched her go, her smile fading as satisfaction settled in her chest. One question, one answer. The mental map of the mansion grew sharper.

---

By noon, she found herself in the garden, sitting beneath a stone arch wound with climbing roses. The air smelled faintly of earth and sea, carried on a breeze from the distant harbor.

Marco Benedetti—the salt-and-pepper man who had stood at Damian’s side during the wedding—was giving orders to two men unloading crates near the service entrance. He dismissed them with a wave before turning and spotting her.

“Signora,” he said, bowing his head slightly.

“Isabella,” she corrected with a faint smile. “Please.”

His eyes crinkled, as though amused by her audacity. “Isabella, then. How are you settling in?”

She tilted her face toward the sunlight, pretending ease. “I’m learning. Slowly. Damian keeps… occupied.”

Marco chuckled softly. “Busy is one word for it.” His gaze lingered on her, studying, perhaps weighing how much she already understood.

She tested him. “It must be difficult, managing so much business at once. The hotels, the restaurants, the… shipments.”

He didn’t flinch, but she saw the faint tightening of his jaw. “He handles it,” Marco said simply. “Damian always handles it.”

There was weight in the words. Admiration, perhaps. Or a warning.

Isabella inclined her head, pretending not to notice the shift. But she filed it away. Another fragment, another clue.

---

By nightfall, shadows stretched long across the halls. Isabella sat at her dressing table, brushing her dark hair with slow, deliberate strokes. Each pass of the comb seemed to steady her thoughts.

The day’s fragments replayed in her mind like a puzzle slowly assembling:

Maria’s warning—Damian does not forgive.

The maid’s slip—the location of the study, the wine cellar below.

Marco’s guarded tone when she mentioned shipments.

Each piece fit into a larger picture, faint but forming.

She set down the comb and met her reflection’s gaze. Her emerald eyes no longer looked soft. They glittered with something sharper, hungrier.

“I’ll be whatever he thinks I am,” she whispered to herself. “But I’ll know more than he ever expects.”

Her father had placed her in this house to preserve his standing. Damian had taken her as part of a vendetta older than her memories. Neither saw her as more than a means to an end.

But Isabella Russo was no pawn.

The mansion whispered, and she was listening.

Tomorrow, she vowed, she would listen harder. Tomorrow she would discover where the empire’s cracks ran deepest. And when the time came, she would know exactly how to use them.

---

From the adjoining room, Damian’s low voice carried, muffled but steady, like thunder behind a closed door. Another phone call. Another war being plotted.

Isabella smiled faintly, sliding one last strand of hair behind her ear.

Talk, Damian, she thought. Plan, scheme, build your empire. I’ll be here, listening. Always listening.