Chapter 8

Shadows and Secrets

The mansion slept, but Kristen couldn’t.

Even though she lay in the softest bed money could buy, surrounded by silence and shadows, her mind was restless. The words Carlo had spat earlier still echoed in her head—sharp and cutting.

Every breath she took reminded her of how trapped she was. Every pulse of pain from her ankle reminded her of hard she'd fallen. She wasn’t just angry. She wasn’t just afraid. She was curious.

Something had changed in him. It wasn’t just hatred. It was deeper. Sharper. Personal. She had to know why.

And somewhere in this house, the answer was waiting.

Kristen sat up slowly, careful not to let the bed creak. The clock on the wall ticked past two in the morning. She reached for her crutches, her muscles tense as she placed her feet on the cool wooden floor.

The hallway was dim. Only a few lamps were left on, casting a soft orange glow along the floorboards. The whole house was quiet, as if holding its secrets tight between its walls.

Kristen moved slowly, each step a careful balance between pain and determination. Her thoughts swirled with one goal: the study. The one room in this house where she knew answers might be hiding.

When she reached the door, she paused.

The handle felt heavy in her palm. It was never locked, but she still hesitated. What if he caught her? What if he knew she was snooping?

She didn’t care.

She pushed it open and stepped inside.

The study smelled like old leather and smoke, rich and suffocating. Books lined the tall walls, and a fire had burned low in the hearth, leaving behind a faint ember glow. The room was empty, and yet it felt like it was watching her.

Kristen moved with purpose now. She checked every shelf, every drawer. Most of them were filled with books or files, bank statements, business papers, property deeds. Cold. Clinical. Nothing personal.

But she wasn’t looking for money or power. She was looking for pain. For the source of the storm that brewed inside Carlo's eyes.

It took nearly an hour.

She moved around the desk, dragging herself to the floor, pressing on the panels beneath the lower shelf, searching for any uneven edge.

Finally, her fingers brushed a thin seam. A hidden panel.

Her heart leapt.

She tugged it open, and there she found an old black folder bound with cracked leather string. It was thick, stuffed with papers and photos.

With trembling hands, she pulled it out and crawled back to the hearth, using the low light to read.

The first thing she saw was a photograph.

A young woman in a maid’s uniform, standing in front of a stone fountain. Her smile was tentative, shy. Her eyes were tired.

Kristen recognized the background instantly.

That fountain was in the garden of her childhood home.

She turned the photo over. On the back, in small handwriting: “Evelyn. My sister.”

Kristen's stomach flipped.

She turned the page.

There were medical reports—records of an illness untreated. A note from Evelyn requesting wages so she could visit a doctor. A letter never sent, addressed to a local church for help. And then, the harshest paper of them all: a death certificate.

Her eyes blurred with tears.

She read faster.

There was a newspaper clipping. A photo of a boy, thin and wide-eyed, begging on the streets. The caption read: “Local orphan spotted weeks after sister’s death.” The boy’s name?

Carlo Moretti.

He had been fifteen. Just a kid.

Kristen sat there, stunned, the weight of it crushing her chest. Her heart cracked at the edges.

Evelyn hadn’t just been anyone. She had been Carolina’s maid. Her employee. She had begged for help and was turned away. And when she died, Carlo had no one left.

Her mother had let a young woman die. She had caused this.

She turned another page. There were more notes—this time legal. Court filings. Signatures. Names of shell companies. Kristen skimmed it all, her brain racing to keep up.

One name stood out.

Don Ricko.

Another article told of a boy taken in by a mafia leader. Raised in the shadows. Groomed to be powerful. Ruthless. Feared.

When Ricko died, Carlo inherited it all.

Then another file about the return of Carolina. This time, as a desperate businesswoman. She needed a loan. Didn’t know who she was dealing with. She never even saw Carlo. The money came through lawyers, faceless hands.

And when she failed to pay?

Carlo demanded her daughter.

Only it hadn’t been her daughter. Not really.

And now Kristen was here. Married to a man haunted by grief. A man who’d been broken by Carolina’s cruelty.

Kristen’s throat tightened.

She didn’t know how to feel. Angry? Hurt? Guilty?

She wasn’t her mother. But part of her understood now. Understood his rage. His pain. Maybe even the twisted reason he looked at her the way he did—like he wanted to hate her, but couldn’t do it completely.

A creak outside the door snapped her back to reality.

Footsteps.

Panic shot through her like lightning.

She scrambled, her hands fumbling with the folder, jamming it back into the hidden compartment. She slammed it shut, crawled across the rug, and ducked behind a long velvet curtain near the window, her breaths shallow and fast.

The door creaked open.

Kristen held still.

Carlo stepped in.

He didn’t say a word. Just walked across the room to the desk. Poured himself a drink. His movements were slow, tired. Not angry. Just... heavy.

He didn’t even glance toward the shelves.

For a terrifying moment, Kristen wondered if he sensed her there. But after sipping his drink, he turned and left.

The door clicked shut behind him.

She waited. One minute. Two.

Then she emerged from her hiding place, her limbs shaking.

Kristen didn’t even remember how she got back to her room. The halls were a blur. Her breath came in short bursts, her chest tight with secrets.

When she finally sat on her bed, she buried her face in her hands.

She knew the truth now. Or at least the beginning of it.

Carlo had every reason to hate Carolina.

But she wasn’t Carolina.

She wasn’t Sophie either.

She was a girl caught in the middle of something ancient, broken, and wrong.

She had to go back.

She had to read the rest.

Because only then would she understand the man who had taken her freedom and maybe, just maybe, the man behind the mask.