Chapter 3 - The Gathering of Vultures
The grand dining room of the Valenti estate glowed with the warm, amber light of a thousand crystal chandelier bulbs, reflecting off polished mahogany, silver candelabras, and crystal champagne flutes filled with Dom Pérignon.
At the center of the massive twelve-seat table sat Celeste Winthrop.
She wore a breathtaking, backless crimson evening gown that clung to her slender frame like liquid fire, a diamond tennis bracelet glittering around her wrist as she took a slow sip of her champagne. Her blonde hair was swept up in an intricate French twist, and her lips wore a confident, triumphant smirk.
“Really, darling,” Celeste purred, looking up as the heavy mahogany doors swung open. “I must say, calling me at four in the afternoon and demanding a formal dinner celebration on a Friday night is terribly impulsive. Even for you.”
Matteo stepped into the room.
He had changed into a fresh charcoal suit, his dark hair neatly combed, his expression an absolute mask of polished, aristocratic charm. He walked slowly toward the table, pulling out the chair directly opposite her before taking a seat.
“Impulsive?” Matteo murmured, resting his elbows on the table and lacing his fingers together. “Perhaps. But a man shouldn't wait when he realizes he’s about to make the most important mistake of his life.”
Celeste’s smile faltered for a fraction of a second, but she quickly recovered, letting out a musical, tinkling laugh. “A mistake? Oh, please. Don’t get cold feet now, Matteo. Society has already sent out the RSVPs. My father has already transferred the first tranche of the Atlantic shipping shares into your portfolio. We are practically married already.”
“Shipping shares,” Matteo repeated softly, tilting his head. “Ah, yes. The Winthrop Foundation charitable trust. A wonderful philanthropic venture. Millions of dollars moving quietly across borders, supporting children in need.”
Celeste’s eyes narrowed slightly. Something in his tone—a subtle, razor-thin edge—didn't sound quite right. She set her champagne flute down on the linen tablecloth with a soft clink.
“What is that supposed to mean?” she asked, her voice losing its playful edge.
“It means,” Matteo said, his slate-gray eyes locking onto hers with terrifying intensity, “that I was reviewing some internal estate audits this afternoon. Specifically, financial discrepancies involving domestic payroll and charity fund allocations.”
Celeste went completely rigid. The color drained from her cheeks, leaving her heavily contoured face looking suddenly harsh under the chandelier lights.
“Audits?” she stammered, her voice pitching up slightly. “What does estate payroll have to do with us? You employ dozens of maids, cooks, and groundskeepers. Who cares if a few ledger entries are messy?”
“Elena cared,” Matteo said.
The name hung in the air like a drop of acid.
Celeste gripped the edge of the table so hard her manicured acrylic nails tapped sharply against the mahogany. “Elena? That—that cleaning woman? Why are you talking about a maid at our engagement dinner?”
“Because,” Matteo continued, his voice terrifyingly calm, “on Tuesday night, Elena discovered that three hundred thousand dollars had been siphoned out of my foundation accounts into a shell company registered in the Cayman Islands under your father’s name. And when she tried to copy the documents, someone attacked her.”
“That’s—that’s absurd!” Celeste shrieked, standing up so fast her chair screeched against the parquet floor. “You’re accusing me based on the word of a hired peasant? Where is she anyway? Probably quit because she couldn't handle the work! You’re letting a servant ruin our evening?”
“She didn't quit, Celeste,” Matteo said slowly. He didn't raise his voice. He didn't need to. Every word dropped like a lead weight. “She was found less than two hours ago. Locked in a freezing brick vault at the end of the sealed west wing. Starved, dehydrated, and bruised.”
Celeste stared at him, her mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water. For a second, the mask slipped entirely, revealing the panicked, cornered predator beneath.
“I... I don't know anything about a vault,” she lied, her voice shaking violently as she backed away from the table. “You’re insane! You’re believing the delusions of a dirty servant over your future wife! I’m leaving.”
She turned on her stiletto heels and bolted toward the double doors of the dining room.
“Viktor,” Matteo said quietly.
Before Celeste reached the threshold, the heavy mahogany doors swung open from the outside, blocking her path.
Standing in the doorway wasn't Viktor.
It was Elena.
She was dressed in a soft, clean cream-colored sweater and dark trousers, her hair brushed out and falling around her shoulders. Though she was pale and leaned slightly against a walking cane for support, her dark eyes were clear, steady, and blazing with an unyielding fire.
Behind her stood two burly estate guards, and holding tightly to Elena’s hand was little Sophie, clutching her gray stuffed rabbit.
Celeste stopped dead in her tracks, stumbling backward as if she had just seen a ghost.
“Y-You...” Celeste whispered, horror spreading across her face. “You were supposed to—you were supposed to be—”
“Dead?” Elena finished for her, her voice clear, calm, and ringing across the massive dining hall. She stepped into the room, walking with deliberate, painful slowness until she stopped ten feet away from the trembling socialite.
“You locked me in the dark for three days,” Elena said, her voice steady as a rock. “You lied to my little girl. You thought because I was a maid, nobody would ever look for me behind a locked door.”
Celeste looked around wildly, realizing every exit was blocked. She turned back toward Matteo, her eyes wide with desperation, tears spilling over her mascara. “Matteo! You can’t believe them! It’s a setup! They’re trying to destroy us!”
Matteo stood up slowly from the table. He walked around it, stepping up beside Elena and placing a protective, solid hand on her shoulder.
He looked down at Celeste—not with anger, but with the cold, absolute disgust of a man stepping on a cockroach.
“You broke the cardinal rule of my house, Celeste,” Matteo said softly. “You touched a mother. You terrified a child. And you assumed my mercy was a weakness.”
May you like
He turned to the guards standing near the doors.
“Take her to the west wing,” Matteo commanded. “Put her in the exact same room. And throw away the key.”
