Chapter 2 - The Interrogation Room
The basement of the Moretti estate did not smell of white roses or expensive French perfume. It smelled of damp stone, iron, and old fear.
Sophia sat strapped to a heavy wooden chair in the middle of a windowless room. A single bare bulb hung from a frayed wire overhead, casting long, stark shadows across her bruised face. Her apron had been torn away, leaving only her plain grey dress. Her wrists were raw and bloody from struggling against the steel cuffs.
The heavy iron door groaned open.
Aleandro stepped inside. He had removed his suit jacket, rolling the sleeves of his white shirt up to his elbows. He looked monstrous in the dim light, his broad shoulders blocking the frame, but his hands were steady. Behind him stood Marco, holding a thick leather folder.
Sophia lifted her head, her dark eyes flashing with a combination of sheer terror and fierce maternal rage.
"Where is my daughter?" she demanded, her voice hoarse from crying. "What have you done with Emma?"
Aleandro held up a hand, stopping Marco from speaking. He pulled a wooden chair up in front of Sophia and sat down, leaning his elbows on his knees so his face was mere inches from hers.
"She is upstairs," Aleandro said, his voice surprisingly quiet, devoid of the cold anger he usually projected. "She is sleeping in my private quarters. Two guards are outside her door. She is eating chocolate cake and holding her stuffed rabbit. No one will touch her."
Sophia let out a ragged breath, her shoulders collapsing slightly. "Thank God."
"Now," Aleandro said, his eyes drilling into hers. "Let us talk about why the woman I spent four years searching for was scrubbing my floors under a fake name."
Sophia went completely rigid.
Marco blinked, looking between his Don and the bruised maid. "Boss? You know her?"
"Leave us, Marco," Aleandro ordered without looking back.
"Boss, the toxicology report came back," Marco hesitated. "The champagne was laced with a military-grade nerve agent. A single drop kills in thirty seconds. She was the only servant in the holding pantry when those glasses were poured. Her fingerprints are on the tray."
"I said leave us," Aleandro repeated, his tone dropping an octave.
Marco swallowed hard, bowed his head, and stepped out of the room, slamming the heavy iron door behind him.
Silence fell over the cold stone room.
Aleandro reached out, his long fingers gently touching the small scar near Sophia’s hairline—a scar she had earned the night she pulled him from his burning car four years ago.
"You died," Aleandro whispered. "My men found blood and ash at the cottage. I thought the Falcone family had tracked you down and executed you to get to me."
"They tried," Sophia said, her voice shaking as tears spilled down her pale cheeks. "Two weeks after you left, three men came to the house with guns. I hid in the storm cellar beneath the floorboards. They burned the house to hide their tracks. I escaped into the woods with nothing but the clothes on my back and a bag of cash you had left under the mattress."
Aleandro’s jaw clenched so hard a muscle twitched in his cheek. "Why didn't you come to New York? Why didn't you find me?"
"Because I watched the news, Aleandro!" Sophia snapped, her eyes blazing. "I saw who you were! I was a twenty-two-year-old orphan from a farm town, and you were the bloodiest mafia don on the East Coast! You had enemies everywhere! If I came to you, I would have been a target! And then..."
Sophia stopped, her voice catching in her throat.
"And then what?" Aleandro pressed, leaning closer.
"And then two months later, I realized I was pregnant."
Aleandro’s breath hitched in his chest. The room seemed to tilt beneath his feet. He had suspected it the moment he saw Emma’s eyes in the ballroom, but hearing the words spoken aloud hit him like a physical blow.
"Emma," Aleandro breathed, his voice trembling. "She's... she's mine?"
"She is your daughter, Aleandro," Sophia sobbed. "I spent four years hiding in small towns, working three jobs at a time just to buy her milk. But six months ago, she got sick. Severe pneumonia. The medical bills wiped out everything I had. I was desperate. I applied for a cleaning job at your estate through an agency using a forged ID. I just wanted to be close to the money... I wanted to ask you for help, but then I saw you with Valentina."
Sophia looked down at her handcuffed wrists.
"I saw you announcing your engagement to a duchess’s daughter. I saw how powerful you were, how cold you had become. I realized there was no place for a maid and a bastard child in your world. So I kept my head down. I worked extra shifts. I saved every penny so I could take Emma away to California."
Aleandro stared at her, his chest rising and falling rapidly. A mixture of profound guilt, fierce pride, and overwhelming love surged through his veins. He had spent years ruling an empire of violence, believing he had no heart left, only to discover his whole world was sleeping upstairs in a pink cotton dress.
He stood up, reached into his pocket, pulled out a small brass key, and unlocked Sophia’s handcuffs.
Sophia rubbed her bruised wrists, looking up at him in shock. "You... you believe I didn't poison her?"
"You saved my life four years ago, Sophia," Aleandro said, pulling her up by her hands. "And you raised my daughter in secret. You are many things, but you are not an assassin. Besides, whoever put that poison in the glass was sloppy."
"What do you mean?"
Aleandro’s eyes turned into cold black ice. "Valentina was not the target tonight."
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Sophia gasped. "What?"
"That bottle of 1996 Dom Pérignon was brought up from my private cellar," Aleandro said, his voice terrifyingly calm. "It was meant for me. Valentina picked up the glass intended for my hand to make her grand toast. Whoever killed her was trying to execute me in front of three hundred people."
