Chapter 13 - Returning to the Carriage House
The afternoon air was cool and crisp as we stepped out through the rear service doors of the mansion and walked down the cobblestone path toward the old carriage house. The structure sat at the far end of the estate gardens, its tall double doors made of weathered oak and wrought iron, half-hidden by overgrown ivy that clung to the brickwork. It was the place where everything had started—where the heavy furniture had been stacked, where my shoulder had been injured, and where the first hidden paper trail of corporate deceit had been uncovered.
Luca unlocked the heavy iron padlock with a brass key, pushing the creaking wooden door open to reveal a cavernous space filled with antique furniture, dust motes dancing in the slanted beams of sunlight, and long rows of wooden crates marked with old shipping labels.
"The insurance investigators are coming tomorrow to catalog the remaining inventory," Luca said, walking over to one of the large oak crates and brushing a layer of dust off the top plank. "I wanted to check it myself first. With you."
"Why with me?" I asked, stepping cautiously into the cool, shadowed interior of the building, keeping my left arm close to my side out of old habit.
"Because you're the only one who actually looked inside these boxes instead of just walking past them," Luca said, turning around to face me. He gestured toward a stack of wooden crates near the back wall—the exact spot where I had lost my footing weeks ago. "This is where Vanessa tried to bury the paper trail. She used the estate's restoration budget to buy properties under shell companies, using staff turnover as an excuse for lost records."
I walked over to the crates, running my fingers along the edge of the rough wood where the carbon receipts had been tucked away behind the false panels. The memory of the pain in my shoulder flared briefly, but it was replaced by a strange, steady sense of closure.
"It's all here," I murmured, pulling out a faded ledger sheet that had slipped between the slats.
May you like
Luca stepped up beside me, his shoulder brushing against mine. The physical proximity felt entirely natural now, stripped of the rigid hierarchy that had defined our first encounters in the grand dining room. He didn't take the paper from my hand; instead, he looked down at my face, his dark eyes catching the pale light filtering through the high carriage house windows.
"We're going to clear all of this out," Luca said quietly. "Every last box. And we're going to turn this space into something else. Something real."
