Chapter 3 - The House With No Mirrors
Vincent Moretti’s house had no mirrors.
Claire noticed it the next morning.
Not immediately. At first, all she noticed was warmth.
The thick cream-colored blankets around her. The fire crackling in the stone fireplace. The scent of coffee and cinnamon drifting from somewhere downstairs.
For one blissful second, she forgot the storm, the dead car, the black SUVs, and the terrifying man who knew her name.
Then Owen shifted beside her.
“Mom?”
Claire opened her eyes.
He was sleeping in a bed larger than their entire living room back home. His blue knit cap had been removed, and someone had dressed him in clean gray pajamas with tiny snowmen printed on them.
Claire sat up too fast.
A woman in navy scrubs stood near the door.
“Good morning,” she said gently. “I’m Dr. Helen Shaw. Your son is fine. Mild hypothermia, but he’s recovering beautifully.”
Claire exhaled so hard it hurt.
“Can I see him?”
“You are seeing him.”
“I mean—he’s okay?”
“He’s okay.” Dr. Shaw smiled. “You did the right thing keeping him close. Another hour in that car might have been a different story.”
Claire looked down at Owen, overwhelmed by relief and guilt.
“You need to eat,” Dr. Shaw added. “And you need rest.”
“I can’t rest.”
“That appears to be a common condition in this house.”
Before Claire could ask what that meant, the doctor left.
A few minutes later, a knock sounded at the door.
Vincent entered carrying a tray.
Coffee. Toast. Scrambled eggs. A bowl of strawberries. Orange juice.
Claire stared at him.
“You brought breakfast?”
“You look like you might faint if you stand up.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It is the answer you’re getting.”
He placed the tray on a table near the bed. He had traded his storm coat for a dark button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled to his forearms. There was a thin scar across one wrist.
Claire noticed it before she could stop herself.
Vincent noticed her noticing.
“Occupational hazard,” he said.
“What occupation is that?”
His mouth almost curved into a smile.
“Complicated management.”
Claire folded her arms. “You mean organized crime.”
Vincent’s face went still.
“I mean survival.”
The room seemed to sharpen around them.
Claire had expected anger, maybe denial. Instead, he spoke as if the truth was too heavy to dress up.
“My father built an empire through fear,” Vincent said. “When he died, I inherited the name before I inherited the choice. I spent the last fifteen years trying to turn it into something less poisonous.”
“Less poisonous?”
“I didn’t say clean.”
Claire looked toward Owen.
“You brought us into this.”
“No,” Vincent said. “Russo brought you into this three years ago. I found you before he did.”
“And why should I believe you?”
“You shouldn’t.” His answer came instantly. “Not yet.”
There was something unnerving about a man who didn’t demand trust.
Claire climbed out of bed, wrapping a robe around herself. It was expensive, soft, and clearly not hers.
“Where are our clothes?”
“Being washed. You can wear whatever you need from the guest wing.”
“Guest wing?”
“This house is larger than it looks.”
“I noticed.”
Vincent stepped aside so she could pass. “There are rules while you’re here.”
Claire turned. “Rules?”
“Always tell someone before you go outside. Do not answer the front door. Do not use your real name with anyone who calls. And if I tell you to get into a vehicle, you do it immediately.”
“That’s not protection. That’s prison.”
“It’s temporary.”
“That’s what men always say when they want control.”
For the first time, Vincent’s jaw tightened.
Then he nodded slowly.
“You’re right.”
Claire blinked.
“I don’t expect you to be comfortable,” he continued. “I expect you to stay alive.”
He left before she could respond.
Later, after Owen woke up hungry and cheerful, Claire took him downstairs. The house was beautiful in a cold, deliberate way—dark wood, stone walls, tall windows looking out at the storm-covered grounds.
There were paintings everywhere.
But no mirrors.
Not in the hallways. Not in the dining room. Not even in the bathroom.
“Mom,” Owen whispered as they sat at the kitchen island, “is Mr. Vincent a bad guy?”
Claire nearly dropped her coffee.
“What makes you ask that?”
“He has scary friends.”
“That’s true.”
“And he talks like the man in that spy movie.”
Claire tried not to smile. “He does.”
Owen chewed his pancake thoughtfully. “But he gave me hot chocolate.”
“Bad guys can give people hot chocolate.”
“That’s confusing.”
“It is.”
A woman named Rosa came in carrying a basket of folded clothes. She was in her sixties, with silver hair and kind eyes.
“These should fit,” she said. “For both of you.”
Claire looked at the new jeans, sweaters, socks, and winter coats inside the basket.
“I can’t accept all this.”
Rosa gave her a look that suggested she had heard that sentence many times before.
“You can accept warm clothes,” she said. “It will not damage your pride.”
Owen laughed.
Claire didn’t.
But she took the clothes.
Near noon, while Owen watched cartoons in a sitting room with Daniel nearby, Claire went searching for Vincent.
She found him in an office on the second floor.
The door was partly open.
Vincent stood near a desk, speaking to a man with a shaved head and a gun at his waist.
“Russo’s men were seen in Albany,” the man said.
“They’re too far east,” Vincent replied.
“Maybe they’re flushing us out.”
“Or maybe they know she’s here.”
Claire froze.
The floorboard creaked.
Both men looked toward the door.
Vincent’s eyes landed on her.
“Come in,” he said.
The other man left immediately.
Claire entered, trying not to look nervous. “You said Russo was looking for us.”
“He is.”
“Why?”
Vincent walked behind the desk and pulled open a locked drawer. From it, he removed a photograph.
He placed it in front of her.
Claire’s knees almost gave out.
The picture showed Adam standing beside another man in a warehouse.
The other man was younger, thinner, and unmistakably Vincent.
Adam was holding something wrapped in brown paper.
“The ledger,” Claire whispered.
Vincent watched her closely.
“Adam came to me six days before he died,” he said. “He said Russo was moving something through the city that would destroy hundreds of lives. He had records. Names. Accounts. Judges, police, politicians.”
Claire stared at the photograph.
“He wanted out,” Vincent continued. “He wanted to protect you and Owen.”
“He never told me.”
“He was afraid you would be used against him.”
Claire’s eyes filled despite her effort.
Adam had lied to her.
But maybe he had lied because he was trying to keep her alive.
“Where is it?” Vincent asked softly.
Claire shook her head.
“I don’t know.”
Vincent studied her face, then looked away.
“I believe you.”
“Why?”
“Because if you had it, you would have run farther than Syracuse.”
Before Claire could reply, a loud crash exploded from downstairs.
Glass shattered.
Then came the sound of gunfire.
Vincent moved faster than she thought possible.
He grabbed Claire by the arm and pulled her behind the heavy desk.
“Stay down.”
“What is happening?”
His face had changed.
The calm, controlled man was gone.
In his place was someone colder.
Deadlier.
“Russo found us,” Vincent said.
Another shot rang out.
May you like
And downstairs, Owen screamed for his mother.
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