Chapter 8: The Countryside Estate
By late afternoon, the pressure at corporate headquarters had become unbearable. Flashbulbs were popping outside the ground-floor lobby windows as news vans converged on Madison Avenue, forcing Roman’s security detail to hustle us out through a subterranean loading dock and into the back of an armored SUV. We didn't return to the city townhouse. Instead, the driver turned the wheel north, heading away from the concrete grid of Manhattan toward the rolling hills of Westchester County where the historic D'Angelo family estate stood hidden behind iron gates and sprawling acreage.
The estate was a sprawling stone manor built in the late nineteenth century—a monument to old money and quiet isolation. When we stepped out of the vehicle, the air smelled of damp earth, pine needles, and approaching rain. Lily, who had been sleeping fitfully in my arms during the drive, woke up as I carried her up the wide stone steps of the porch. She blinked her big blue eyes, looking around at the towering oak trees and the ivy-covered stone walls with a quiet, wary curiosity.
“Is this where we live now?” she whispered, her small arms tightening around my neck.
“Just for a little while, sweet girl,” I murmured, pressing a soft kiss to her dusty hair. “Just until the noise goes away.”
Roman unlocked the heavy oak front door, the brass latch clicking open with a sound that echoed through a cavernous, wood-paneled foyer lit by the amber glow of wall sconces. The house was freezing—unused for months, perhaps years, holding the stale scent of old furniture, beeswax, and forgotten memories.
While Roman went to check the security perimeter and speak with the estate caretaker on a secure satellite line, I carried Lily into the east wing parlor. A massive stone fireplace dominated the room, flanked by floor-to-ceiling bookshelves crammed with leather-bound volumes. I set Lily down on a plush velvet sofa that had been covered in white dust sheets, peeling back the fabric to reveal a deep green upholstery that looked surprisingly soft.
“Wait here for just a second,” I told her, grabbing a light wool throw blanket from an armchair to wrap around her shoulders. “I’m going to find the kitchen and see if they have any milk or crackers for you.”
As I walked down the dim, portrait-lined hallway searching for the domestic quarters, my footsteps made no sound on the thick Persian runners. The portraits on the walls stared down at me with painted eyes—past generations of D’Angelos in stiff collars and military uniforms, their expressions uniformly severe, as if joy was an emotion forbidden within these walls.
I found the kitchen—a vast, modernized space outfitted with stainless steel counters and commercial refrigerators, completely devoid of life. On the center island sat a small cardboard box left behind by the cleaning service, filled with unopened pantry staples and a kettle. I flicked on the electric burner, filling a small saucepan with milk from the fridge to warm for Lily.
While the milk heated, my eyes drifted to a small mahogany desk tucked into the corner of the kitchen alcove. On top of it sat a leather-bound journal, its cover worn and scratched at the corners, wedged beneath a stack of old seed catalogs. Something about the way it was placed—not neatly filed, but shoved aside hastily—drew my hand toward it.
I picked it up and opened the cover. Written on the first page in a delicate, sloping cursive was a name: Elena D’Angelo.
Roman’s late wife. The woman whose memory had hung over him like a ghost for two decades.
My breath hitched in my throat. I flipped open to a page midway through the book, dated twenty-eight years ago, just after Roman and Elena’s marriage.
“Helena came by the nursery today while Roman was at the board meeting,” the neat handwriting read, the ink slightly faded to a brownish gray. “She told me the baby was born with a severe respiratory defect, that the doctors did everything they could, but he didn't survive the night. She wouldn't let me see him. She said it would only prolong the grief. But I heard crying coming from her private suite upstairs when the house was quiet. I know I’m losing my mind. I see ghosts in the hallways. If Roman finds out she’s lying, he’ll destroy her, but she’s woven a web so tight around this house that I can’t breathe.”
I stared at the words, the paper trembling slightly in my hand. Helena hadn't just embezzled foundation money. She had stolen children from cribs, rewriting family trees to maintain absolute control over the D’Angelo bloodline, feeding her son a lie that his child had died at birth, all to mold him into a docile instrument of her corporate ambition.
“What did you find?”
May you like
I jumped, dropping the journal back onto the desk with a soft thud. Roman stood in the doorway of the kitchen, his dark hair slightly ruffled by the wind outside, his coat unbuttoned at the collar. His dark eyes searched my face, noting the paleness of my skin and the wide, shaken look in my eyes.
“Roman,” I whispered, my voice barely audible over the hum of the refrigerator. “It wasn't just Lily. Your mother... she did this before.”
