Chapter 3 - The Interrogation in the West Wing
The grand ballroom was cleared within ten minutes. The elite guests, accustomed to the sudden, violent shifts of underworld politics, scurried out through the security gates like frightened mice, leaving behind only the cold stone, the glittering chandeliers, and the oppressive weight of impending reckoning.
Vivian was sequestered in the green room under guard, her protests echoing faintly down the corridor, while Donato Vance was dragged down to the reinforced concrete basement beneath Villa Moretti.
Meanwhile, Alessandro had instructed his senior housekeeper to escort Clara and me to a warm, private sitting room on the second floor. A large plate of pastries and a cup of hot chocolate sat untouched on the mahogany table. Clara was curled up on a plush velvet sofa, finally asleep with her cream-colored teddy bear clutched tightly in her arms, exhausted by the night's terrifying events.
I sat on the edge of a velvet armchair, my hands trembling as I stared at the carved double doors.
Click.
The door swung open, and Alessandro walked in. He had discarded his suit jacket, rolling up his crisp white sleeves to reveal corded forearms covered in faint, faded scars. He looked tired—not the tired of a man who worked long hours, but the bone-deep fatigue of a man carrying the ghosts of a dozen dead friends.
He walked quietly across the room, casting a gentle glance at the sleeping child before pulling up a chair directly opposite me.
"She sleeps like she has nothing to fear in the world," Alessandro murmured softly, his voice devoid of its usual chilling authority.
"She's three," I whispered, keeping my voice low so as not to wake her. "She doesn't know about syndicates, or turf wars, or men who kill with a stroke of a pen. To her, the world is just a big place full of nice bears and tall ceilings."
Alessandro nodded slowly, resting his elbows on his knees and staring at his interlocked fingers. "Keep her that way, Elena. The world outside these walls is a slaughterhouse."
My breath hitched. "You remember my name."
"I make it a point to know the name of everyone who steps foot in my home," he replied, lifting his gaze to meet mine. "Especially someone who works twice as hard as any three of my paid staff, yet has to endure insults from women like Vivian."
"Vivian is your fiancée," I pointed out, a bitter edge slipping into my voice despite my fear. "Insulting me was the least of her talents."
A wry, cynical smile touched Alessandro's lips. "Was is the operative word. Engagement is off. Permanently. A woman who strikes a defenseless mother in front of a child has no place bearing the Moretti name—nor does she have any business remaining under my roof."
I stared at him, stunned. "You broke off an alliance with the Romano family just because of... of a maid?"
"You are not just a maid, Elena," Alessandro said, his gray eyes locking onto mine with an intensity that made my breath catch. "Not anymore. Not after tonight. That bear... it changes everything."
"It's just a stuffed animal, Mr. Moretti," I pleaded, feeling a sudden surge of panic. "Please. If it belongs to your family, take it back. We don't want any trouble. We can pack our bags tonight and leave Milan. You won't ever see us again."
"You think you can just run away from a ghost?" Alessandro asked softly, standing up and walking over to the window that looked out over the snow-dusted gardens. "That bear was manufactured in a private workshop in Switzerland twelve years ago. Only fifty were made. They were gifts given exclusively to my closest blood relatives to commemorate the founding of our family shipping line. One of them was placed in the crib of my infant niece... the night my brother and his wife were murdered."
The room seemed to spin. I stood up from the armchair, my legs shaking beneath me. "Niece? But... but my husband and I found Clara—wait. No. That's impossible. My husband, Marco, found her. He... he told me he found her abandoned near the train station during a blizzard."
Alessandro spun around from the window, his eyes blazing with a sudden, terrifying hunger. "What did you say your husband's name was?"
"Marco," I whispered, the cold sweat breaking out across my neck. "Marco Bennett. He... he died two years ago in a scaffolding collapse at a construction site downtown."
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Alessandro stared at me as if he had just seen a dead man walk through the door.
"Marco Bennett," Alessandro repeated slowly, the name tasting like poison on his tongue. "Marco wasn't a construction worker, Elena. Before he vanished five years ago, Marco was my chief financial officer... and the man who managed the northern docks on the night my brother's house burned down."
