Chapter 4 - The Secret of Room 4B
By midnight, a ferocious blizzard had descended from the mountain peaks, encasing Moretti Manor in a tomb of howling wind and driving snow.
The massive oak branches outside the arched windows scraped against the glass like skeletal fingers trying to break into the warmth.
Most of the domestic staff had already retreated to the servants' quarters in the detached carriage house, terrified of being caught out in the storm.
Nora had not been allowed to leave.
As punishment for the morning incident in the kitchen, Mrs. Gable had assigned her the midnight corridor patrol along the third-floor west gallery.
Her task was simple yet sadistic: hand-wax the four-hundred-foot parquet floor using only a block of beeswax and a flannel rag.
Nora knelt on the freezing hardwood, pushing the heavy wax cloth forward inch by painful inch.
Her knees were bruised purple from the morning fall, and every forward motion sent a throbbing ache radiating through her pelvis.
Yet her mind was not focused on her physical agony.
Her thoughts were consumed entirely by the amber vial she had seen Mrs. Gable conceal in the silver pantry.
The west gallery was shrouded in perpetual gloom, lit only by low-wattage brass sconces that flickered whenever the mountain wind buffeted the exterior stone walls.
At the very end of the corridor, past the rows of brooding oil portraits depicting dead Moretti patriarchs, stood a heavy iron-studded door marked with a tarnished brass plate: 4B.
For the four months Nora had worked at the manor, that door had remained double-locked and strictly off-limits to general staff.
Mrs. Gable personally carried a brass key on her heavy ring, insisting that the room held water-damaged family archives that required special climate control.
Suddenly, the faint click of a side door at the far end of the service stairs cut through the wailing of the storm.
Nora immediately extinguished her small utility flashlight, shrinking back into the deep shadow of an antique velvet divan.
Two figures emerged into the dimly lit hallway.
The first was Mrs. Gable, wrapped in a thick wool shawl, her keys jingling softly against her apron.
The second figure was a man wearing a high-collared cashmere coat, his face obscured by a brimmed hat pulled low over his forehead.
As he stepped beneath the flickering sconce, Nora caught a glimpse of his sharp profile.
It was Julian Moretti, Lorenzo’s estranged first cousin and the vice president of the family’s domestic shipping subsidiary.
Julian was supposed to be in Chicago attending the winter maritime summit.
What was he doing sneaking through the service entrances of Moretti Manor in the middle of a blizzard?
"Did anyone see you come up the back terrace?" Mrs. Gable whispered, her voice laced with sharp paranoia.
"The blizzard has blinded the security cameras on the perimeter," Julian replied, his voice smooth, arrogant, and dripping with disdain.
"Where is Lorenzo?"
"Locked in his private library with his security team reviewing the offshore acquisition drafts," Mrs. Gable said.
"He won't leave that room until five in the morning."
"He is completely oblivious to what happens on this floor."
Julian let out a cold, dismissive chuckle.
"My brilliant cousin thinks he can run this empire alone just because my uncle named him sole executor."
"He has no idea that the real power never left this wing."
"How is the old man doing?"
Mrs. Gable pulled the brass key from her pocket, inserting it into the heavy lock of Room 4B with a dull, metallic click.
"His cognitive functions are deteriorating exactly on schedule," the housekeeper whispered, leaning closer to Julian.
"The drops I’ve been adding to his morning broth and night tea have induced continuous delirium."
"The medical examiner will find nothing except the natural progression of vascular dementia when the time comes."
Julian nodded with satisfied approval.
"Good."
"The notary arrives tomorrow afternoon during the peak of the storm."
"Once the old man presses his thumbprint onto the revised trust agreement, Lorenzo’s executive powers will be stripped by sunset."
"And what about that scullery girl?" Mrs. Gable asked, her tone hardening into pure malice.
"The pregnant one who saw the tea service?"
Julian waved a gloved hand dismissively.
"Handle her however you see fit."
"Frame her, throw her out, or have Higgins lock her in the county tank until the child is born."
"Just make sure she doesn't breathe a word to Lorenzo before tomorrow night’s dinner."
"Understood," Mrs. Gable said with a sinister grin.
The two conspirators stepped through the door of Room 4B, closing it softly behind them, leaving the latch resting just on the edge of the striker plate.
Nora remained frozen behind the velvet divan, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird.
The 'old man' inside Room 4B was not a distant relative or an invalid servant.
He was Vincent Moretti, Lorenzo’s grandfather and the founding patriarch of the entire Moretti dynasty.
The public believed Vincent had passed away peacefully in a Swiss sanitarium two years ago.
Instead, his own family had locked him inside his own mansion, systematically poisoning his mind to steal an inheritance worth billions.
And tomorrow night, they planned to finalize the coup while getting rid of Nora forever.
Nora knew that running away was no longer an option.
If Julian and Mrs. Gable succeeded, the sheriff would hunt her down on manufactured theft charges before she reached the interstate.
Her only chance at survival—for herself and her unborn child—lay in the very room they had just entered.
Ten minutes later, the door to Room 4B opened again.
Julian and Mrs. Gable stepped back into the hallway, their hushed conversation fading as they hurried down the service stairs toward the rear courtyard.
Nora waited until the sound of their footsteps was completely swallowed by the storm.
Then, dragging her bruised body across the cold hardwood, she approached the forbidden door.
Her hand trembled as she pushed against the heavy oak panel.
The door drifted open without a sound, revealing a dimly lit room that smelled of stale medicine, damp sheets, and slow, agonizing decay.
At the center of the room sat a massive four-poster bed draped in faded green velvet.
Lying among the tangled pillows was an emaciated old man with sunken cheeks, skin as pale as parchment, and a shock of thin white hair.
His breathing was shallow, rattled, and strained.
Nora stepped softly toward the bedside, her heart aching at the sight of such calculated cruelty.
As her shadow fell across the bed, the old man’s cloudy gray eyes snapped open.
With sudden, terrifying strength, his bony, trembling hand shot out from beneath the blankets and clamped around Nora’s wrist.
His grip was surprisingly fierce, born of pure, desperate survival instinct.
"Don't... don't let them give me the tea," the old man wheezed, his cracked lips barely moving as he stared wildly into Nora’s face.
"Vincent... Mr. Moretti?" Nora whispered, leaning down so she wouldn't startle him.
"I'm not here to hurt you."
The old man’s gaze suddenly locked onto a small silver ring worn on a cord around Nora’s neck—an old, tarnished family heirloom passed down from her late grandmother.
His milky eyes widened in profound, disbelieving recognition.
"Elena's ring..." the patriarch gasped, his voice cracking with raw emotion.
"You have Elena's eyes."
Nora’s breath hitched in confusion.
Elena was her grandmother’s name, a woman who had worked as a private seamstress in this very county fifty years ago.
"Listen to me, girl," Vincent Moretti whispered, pulling her closer until his frail breath brushed her ear.
"Julian... and Gable... they are not waiting for the dementia to take me."
"Tomorrow night... the banquet tea..."
"They aren't just giving me the final dose."
"They are going to poison Lorenzo."
"They want the master and the founder dead in the same night."
"You must warn my boy... you must save Lorenzo..."
Before Nora could reply, the old man’s eyes rolled back, his grip on her wrist went slack, and he sank back into a deep, drug-induced stupor.
Nora stood frozen beside the bed, the weight of the revelation crashing down upon her like an avalanche.
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The danger was not confined to this locked room.
A double murder was scheduled for the banquet table in less than eighteen hours, and she was the only living soul in the manor who knew the truth.
