Chapter 3 - Whispers in the Manor
By afternoon, the tension inside the Duca manor had reached a boiling point.
The sudden lockdown had sparked rumors among the guards and the rest of the household staff. Whispers traveled through the grand corridors like a plague. Some said there had been an assassination attempt; others rumored that Alessandro had finally lost his mind and was purging his inner circle.
But the most shocking rumor of all was that the boss had moved a lowly maid and her toddler into his private quarters.
In the elegant dining room of the west wing, Enzo Duca sat at the long mahogany table, sipping a glass of red wine. Beside him stood his son, Marcus, who was pacing back and forth, his face flushed with nervous energy.
"He knows, Dad," Marcus hissed, keeping his voice down. "The security cameras in the kitchen... Matteo is too smart. He'll find the bypass. We should have hit him when he was outside the estate."
Enzo, a man in his late fifties with slicked-back silver hair and a sharp, calculating gaze, set his glass down with a soft click. "Calm down, you fool. If he knew for certain, we would already be dead. Alessandro does not hesitate. If we are still breathing, it means he has suspicions, but no proof."
"But the cook—"
"The cook knows nothing that can link back to us directly," Enzo interrupted. "The money went through three different shell companies. Even if they trace it, it will take weeks. What worries me is the girl."
"The maid's kid?" Marcus sneered. "She's three years old. What could she possibly know?"
"She knew the smell," Enzo said, his eyes darkening. "She recognized the toxin. That means she remembers how her father died. If Alessandro puts the pieces together, he will realize Ricardo didn't die of a heart attack. He will realize we used Ricardo to test the dosage before we targeted his father."
Marcus swallowed hard. "So what do we do?"
"We silence them," Enzo said coldly. "Both of them. The mother and the child. If they are dead, Alessandro's only lead dies with them. And without proof, the other families on the commission will never allow him to move against us."
Meanwhile, on the third floor, a completely different scene was unfolding.
For the first time in his life, Alessandro Duca was sharing his space with a child.
Emma had woken up hungry, and Alessandro had ordered his personal, trusted chef—a man who had cooked for his family for thirty years—to prepare a simple meal of chicken soup and fresh bread.
Now, Emma sat at the small breakfast table in his study, her face smeared with broth. She was giggling as she tried to feed a spoonful of soup to her stuffed rabbit.
"Bunny is hungry too," she announced to Alessandro, who was watching her from his desk.
Sophia sat beside her, looking slightly embarrassed. "Emma, eat your food. Don't play with it."
Alessandro found himself smiling—a genuine, rare smile that felt foreign to his facial muscles. "Let her play, Sophia. It’s fine."
Sophia looked at him, her hazel eyes softening. "You're very different from what the staff says about you, Alessandro. They say you are cold. Unfeeling."
"I have to be," Alessandro said, his tone turning reflective. "In my world, feelings are a luxury. They are a weakness that enemies can exploit. But in this room... I don't have to be the boss. Not right now."
He got up and walked over to the table. He pulled out a chair and sat down next to Emma. The little girl looked up at him, her dark curls bouncing, and offered him her half-eaten piece of bread.
"You want some?" she asked innocently.
Alessandro looked at the bread, then at the child's trusting face. The man who had survived a dozen assassination attempts, who had built an empire on fear, felt something shift deep inside his chest. A protective warmth he had never experienced before.
"No, thank you, Emma," he said softly, gently pushing the bread back toward her. "You eat it. You need to grow big and strong."
"Like you?" she asked.
"Stronger than me," Alessandro whispered. "And much safer."
Suddenly, the lights in the room flickered.
Then, they went out completely, plunging the suite into pitch blackness.
The hum of the air conditioning died. The electronic locks on the doors clicked—not to unlock, but to lock down, a fail-safe that had been overridden.
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"Alessandro?" Sophia's voice rose in panic in the dark.
"Stay still," Alessandro commanded, his voice instantly losing all warmth, returning to the sharp, lethal tone of the Don. He reached into his jacket, his hand closing around the cold grip of his customized semi-automatic pistol. "Get under the table. Now. Hold Emma and do not make a sound."
