Chapter 3 - THE SHADOW IN THE EAST WING
By 3:00 a.m., the mansion had grown deathly still.
Rosie had finally cried herself to sleep in the master suite, curled against Ezra’s side with her small hand locked tight around his thumb. Ezra lay awake in the dark, staring up at the vaulted ceiling of his bedroom, listening to the wind howl against the reinforced windowpanes.
The test had worked. He had wanted to find out who was conspiring against him within the syndicate, who had leaked his travel schedules to his rivals, and who was eager to carve up his estate. He had found his answer in Griffin.
But as he looked down at Rosie’s peaceful, sleeping face, a cold realization settled into his chest: Griffin wasn't smart enough to orchestrate a corporate coup on his own. Someone else was pulling his strings. Someone inside the estate. Someone who had watched every move Willa and Rosie made.
A soft tap at the bedroom door broke the silence.
Ezra carefully extricated his thumb from Rosie’s grip, pulled the duvet over her shoulders, and slipped out of bed. He crossed the room silently, opening the door a fraction of an inch.
Willa stood in the hallway. She had changed out of her daytime clothes into a simple grey sweater and dark trousers. Her auburn hair fell loose around her shoulders, and in the dim hallway light, she looked remarkably young, yet carrying a weight far beyond her years.
"Is she sleeping?" Willa whispered.
"She is," Ezra answered quietly, stepping out into the hall and pulling the door mostly closed behind him. "What is it, Willa? It's the middle of the night."
Willa hesitated, glancing down the dark corridor toward the stairs before looking back up at him. Her pale green eyes were troubled. "I couldn't sleep. And... there's something I think you need to know about what happened while you were 'gone.'"
Ezra’s eyes narrowed slightly. "Go on."
"It wasn't just Griffin coming to the house," Willa said, her voice dropping to an anxious murmur. "For the last two weeks—ever since the news of your... death—someone has been going through Nadia's old studio on the third floor. Items are missing. Not jewelry, Ezra. Sketchbooks. Personal letters. Financial documents from before she married you."
Ezra stepped closer, the air between them growing dense. "Who has access to the third floor besides you and the housekeeping staff?"
"Paige," Willa replied instantly. "She’s been coming to the house almost every day, claiming she’s checking on Rosie for me. But the housekeeper saw her coming out of Nadia’s studio late last night carrying a locked leather briefcase."
A heavy, dangerous silence fell over the corridor.
Nadia had died in a car accident two years ago. An accident the police had ruled as mechanical failure—brake lines cut cleanly by an unknown hand. At the time, Ezra had searched the city for answers, but his rivals had absorbed the blame, and the trail had gone cold.
If Paige was digging through Nadia’s private papers now, it meant Nadia’s death hadn't been a random act of gang violence or corporate sabotage. It had been an inside job.
"Thank you, Willa," Ezra said softly, his voice dangerously low. "You’ve risked a lot by watching these people while I was gone."
"I didn't do it for you, Mr. Cross," Willa said, her chin lifting slightly with a stubborn, fierce pride. "I did it for Rosie. This is her home, not a battlefield for your family's greed."
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Ezra watched her for a long moment, seeing the incredible strength hidden beneath her quiet exterior. For two years, he had kept everyone at a distance, believing that emotional detachment was the only armor a mafia boss could wear. But looking at Willa—who had stood between a terrified child and a desperate, violent man—he realized he had been wrong about almost everything.
"Go back to bed, Willa," Ezra murmured, his tone softening imperceptibly. "Tomorrow, we finish this."
