Chapter 5 The Echoes of Power

The estate was vast-far larger than Valeria had imagined. After breakfast-or what passed for breakfast in a world she no longer recognized-she wandered the hallways, determined not to let disorientation blind her.

Every corridor whispered of money. Not loud, ostentatious wealth, but old wealth-the kind that didn't need to shout. Ornate rugs, towering oil portraits of grim ancestors, and floor-to-ceiling bookshelves lined with leather-bound volumes spoke of generations of power. There was no music, no hum of life. Just silence.

She turned a corner and found herself in the heart of the east wing. The air here felt cooler, heavier. As if the walls themselves held secrets.

A flicker of movement caught her eye.

A woman in a green uniform-different from the maid who'd greeted her earlier-hurried down a side hallway, carrying what looked like sealed folders. She didn't stop to bow or speak. Just passed by quickly, head down, before disappearing into another room.

That was the third staff member Valeria had seen in an hour. None of them looked her in the eye. It wasn't respect. It was fear.

That told her something about Dario that his words hadn't.

She continued walking, memorizing doorways, tracing the architecture. A house this old couldn't be all marble and elegance. It had to have layers beneath-secret rooms, hidden passageways, or at least records of the people who lived here before her.

Eventually, she found the library.

It was a cathedral of books. Domed ceiling, dark walnut shelves that reached so high they required ladders, and soft golden light that bathed the leather spines in a warm glow. The scent of parchment, dust, and wood oil wrapped around her like a memory.

She walked slowly through the aisles, dragging her fingers across spines: European Trade Law, The Silk Road and Its Echoes, Dynasties of the Mediterranean. It wasn't just a collection. It was curated knowledge economics, diplomacy, politics, history, and war.

This was no idle man's library.

This was a strategist's mind made manifest.

A chill crept up her spine as she realized what kind of game she'd been pulled into. Dario wasn't a tyrant or a brute. He was a tactician. Everything calculated. Even her.

She stopped in front of a locked cabinet. Inside, behind glass, were bound ledgers-dated, annotated, with the Levanis family crest burned into the covers. Records. Maybe financial. Maybe personal. Either way, locked.

Of course.

"You shouldn't be here."

The voice behind her made her jump. She turned fast-too fast-and nearly knocked over the stepstool beside her.

It was the same woman in the green uniform.

Older, late forties perhaps, with sharp eyes and a face carved by worry. She wasn't a maid. Not with that tone. Not with that stance. Her authority hung in the air.

Valeria straightened. "I'm the lady of this house. I'll go where I please."

There was a flicker of surprise in the woman's eyes. Then the faintest curl of a smile. "Good answer."

"Who are you?" Valeria asked.

"I manage the estate," the woman said. "My name is Elira."

Elira. A Greek name. Fitting.

"You don't seem afraid of him," Valeria observed.

"Should I be?"

Valeria stepped closer. "Everyone else is."

Elira studied her in silence for a long beat. Then said, "Fear and respect often wear the same mask. Learn to tell the difference."

Valeria considered that.

Elira continued, "Dario isn't your enemy, though I don't expect you to believe that today. But know this-this house remembers everything. The walls, the staff, the legacy. It watches how you carry yourself. That's how your power will grow."

"I didn't ask to be here."

"No. But you're here now. And how you choose to move will decide whether you survive."

Elira didn't wait for permission to leave. She turned and disappeared back through the tall doors, leaving Valeria alone with her thoughts and the silence of the library.

Valeria stood there, unmoving, for several minutes.

This house remembers everything.

She turned back toward the locked case, then to the shelves beside it. She reached for a leather-bound book on Levanis maritime ventures in the 1800s. Something caught her eye-tucked behind the spine, nearly invisible. A small folded slip of paper.

She pulled it out and opened it carefully.

A list of initials. A date. A word circled in dark ink: Inheritance.

She tucked the paper into her blouse.

Something was hidden here, something the Levanis family didn't want her to see. Something tied to the marriage, the timing, and maybe even her father's death.

As she stepped back into the hallway, she felt it not just suspicion, but clarity.

She wasn't going to run.

She wasn't going to crumble.

She was going to learn.

If this was a game of legacies and bloodlines, she'd play it better than they ever expected. Because Casa Moretti wasn't just fashion. It was built on sharp instincts and warlike discipline.

And Valeria Moretti was her father's daughter.