Chapter 3 - The Mansion Had Armed Guards—But the Real Threat Was Waiting in My Bedroom
The Ki mansion looked exactly as dangerous as I had imagined.
Black gates.
Stone walls.
Security cameras hidden among immaculate landscaping.
Armed guards pretending not to be armed.
The estate sat beyond a long private road, surrounded by trees and silence.
I stepped from the SUV.
“This is excessive.”
Octavio walked beside me.
“This is normal.”
“For you.”
“Yes.”
Inside, everything was polished.
Dark wood.
Huge windows.
Paintings worth more than entire neighborhoods.
And silence.
Too much silence.
A house that rich should have sounded alive.
Instead, it sounded like it was holding its breath.
A woman in her sixties approached.
Her silver hair was tied back neatly.
“Nomi?”
I nodded.
She smiled.
“I’m Rosa.”
“The housekeeper?”
“The woman who has kept this house standing while the men inside destroyed everything else.”
I liked her immediately.
Octavio sighed.
“Rosa.”
“What?”
“You're making our guest uncomfortable.”
“Good. Maybe she'll tell you when you're being an idiot.”
I almost smiled.
He pointed down the hallway.
“Your room is prepared.”
“My room?”
“Yes.”
“How long am I staying?”
“Until this is over.”
“And when is that?”
“I don't know.”
“Then maybe I shouldn't unpack.”
“You won't need to.”
A strange tension entered his voice.
“What?”
“Because I need you close.”
I felt heat touch my cheeks.
Rosa stared at him.
Then at me.
Then smiled far too knowingly.
“I'll bring tea.”
She left.
I looked at Octavio.
“Your staff are terrifying.”
“They're honest.”
He opened a door.
I stepped inside.
The bedroom was beautiful.
Large bed.
Fireplace.
Balcony overlooking the grounds.
Fresh clothes.
A small art table.
My sketchbooks had already been moved there.
I stared.
“You had my things brought over?”
“Yes.”
“You went through them?”
“No.”
“Who did?”
“Rosa.”
“She touched my drawings?”
“With gloves.”
“That somehow makes it worse.”
He leaned against the doorway.
“You'll be safe here.”
I looked at him.
“Thank you.”
The words came out before I could stop them.
His expression softened.
“You're welcome.”
He started to leave.
Then I saw something.
A tiny black mark near the inside of the door.
The crow.
My stomach dropped.
“Octavio.”
He turned.
“What?”
I pointed.
He crossed the room immediately.
He touched the mark.
Then he looked at me.
“Don't move.”
His security team arrived in seconds.
They searched the room.
Nothing.
No weapons.
No people.
No listening devices.
Just one thing.
A photograph.
It was under my pillow.
I recognized myself.
But I had never seen the photo before.
It showed me leaving my tattoo studio 3 months earlier.
Someone had photographed me from across the street.
On the back, written in black ink:
SHE DOESN'T KNOW WHO SHE IS.
I felt sick.
Octavio took the photograph.
His face became unreadable.
“Why would someone say that?”
He looked at me.
“I don't know.”
“You know something.”
“I suspect something.”
“What?”
He hesitated.
“My father had an enemy.”
“Rafael Moretti.”
“Yes.”
“What does he have to do with me?”
“I don't know yet.”
I stepped closer.
“Then find out.”
Octavio looked at me strangely.
“You don't sound scared.”
“I am.”
“Then why are you acting like this?”
“Because being scared doesn't make me stupid.”
Something warmed in his eyes.
“That's one of the things I noticed.”
“What else?”
“That you always sit facing doors.”
I froze.
“How did you know that?”
“I noticed.”
I looked away.
“You said I was invisible.”
“I was wrong.”
The room fell quiet.
He reached for my hand.
His fingers brushed mine.
“Nomi.”
“Yes?”
“If you remember anything unusual from before you met Valentina, tell me.”
“I had a normal childhood.”
“Where?”
“Here.”
“Family?”
“My father left when I was six. My mother died when I was eighteen.”
His expression changed.
“How?”
“Car accident.”
“Do you have the report?”
“Why?”
“I need to check.”
I frowned.
“You think my mother's accident wasn't an accident?”
“I think too many things are connected.”
He didn't sleep that night.
Neither did I.
At 4:13 a.m., I found him sitting alone in the library.
A bottle of whiskey untouched beside him.
He was staring at an old photograph.
“Your house is creepy at night,” I whispered.
He glanced up.
“Can't sleep?”
“No.”
“Me neither.”
I approached.
The photograph was of a younger Octavio.
About fourteen.
Beside him stood a woman with dark curls.
My heart stopped.
Her eyes were mine.
I stared.
“Who is that?”
He looked at the photograph.
“My mother.”
I swallowed.
“That's not possible.”
He frowned.
“What?”
I pointed.
“She looks like me.”
Octavio went still.
We stared at the photograph.
The resemblance wasn't subtle.
The same dark curls.
Same narrow nose.
Same gray-green eyes.
Same tiny scar near the left eyebrow.
My mother had that scar.
I remembered it.
I had seen it every day growing up.
I touched the photograph.
“Her name?”
“Isabella.”
“My mother's name was Elena.”
His face changed.
“Where did your mother grow up?”
“Cicero.”
“What year was she born?”
“1977.”
He went silent.
My pulse accelerated.
“What?”
He grabbed his phone and called someone.
“Find every record on Isabella Ki.”
Then he looked at me.
“Your mother's full name.”
“Elena Marino.”
His phone was still against his ear.
The man on the other end answered.
Octavio froze.
“Repeat that.”
Silence.
Then:
“She's alive.”
My breath caught.
“What?”
He stared at me.
“Your mother.”
“No.”
“She's alive.”
My knees almost gave out.
“That’s impossible.”
“I know.”
“Where is she?”
“I don't know.”
He hung up.
I backed away.
“You're lying.”
“I’m not.”
“My mother died when I was eighteen.”
“Someone forged a death record.”
My world cracked open.
All the years of grief.
The funeral.
The photograph.
The empty house.
Everything.
“Why?”
Octavio stared at me.
“I don't know.”
Then his phone rang again.
He answered.
His face went pale.
“Boss,” his man said, “we found a sealed record.”
“What record?”
A pause.
“The old one.”
Octavio's voice dropped.
“What does it say?”
The silence lasted too long.
Then:
“Isabella Ki had a daughter.”
My heartbeat stopped.
May you like
Octavio looked at me.
“And her daughter disappeared.”
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