Chapter 4 - Fifteen Years in the Shadow
While Lorenzo was walking the halls of St. Cecilia Elementary, back at the Duca estate, the massive iron gates remained locked, but the atmosphere inside was near-explosive.
Marco Rossi paced the length of the grand library, his boots clicking against the parquet floor. Seated across from him in a high-backed leather armchair was Clara Bennett. She was no longer the meek kitchen maid who had begged for her job the night before. Her posture was rigid, defensive, and charged with a fierce, protective anger.
“You should have kept your mouth shut, Marco,” Clara said, her voice low and sharp. “If Lorenzo finds out the whole truth—about who my father was, about why we were hidden—he will burn this entire city to the ground to find out who ordered the hit on Isabella.”
“He is going to find out regardless,” Marco fired back, slamming his palm onto the mahogany table. “Do you think I wanted to keep this secret for fifteen years? Do you think it was easy watching him mourn a ghost every single day while knowing the bullet meant for Isabella was fired from inside our own payroll?”
Clara flinched, her eyes darkening. “My father didn’t pull that trigger. He was a bookkeeper, not an assassin. He only kept the ledgers of the men who did. And when he tried to hand those ledgers to Lorenzo’s father, they killed him, too. They left my family with nothing except a new name and a weekly envelope of hush money.”
“And you took the job here as a maid to get close to Lorenzo?” Marco asked, leaning in, his eyes narrowing. “To use his power to settle a fifteen-year blood debt?”
“I took the job because we were starving!” Clara snapped, tears finally spilling over her lashes. “The hush money stopped six months ago when the old captains started dying off. I had nowhere else to go. I never expected Emma to walk into that ballroom. I never expected her to hand him a red crayon heart!”
Marco went silent. He walked over to the tall arched window overlooking the private rose garden. The shadows were lengthening. The afternoon was sliding toward evening, and Lorenzo was due back from the school festival with Emma at any moment.
“Listen to me, Clara,” Marco said, his voice dropping to a gravelly whisper. “If Bianchi or Falcone connects the dots—if they realize that the maid’s daughter living under Lorenzo’s roof is somehow linked to the ledger of fifteen years ago—they won’t just target Lorenzo. They will use the child to force him to hand over the entire Duca empire.”
May you like
Before Clara could reply, the distant rumble of the Maybach’s engine echoed from the front courtyard.
Marco turned from the window, pulling a heavy silver-plated Beretta from his shoulder holster and checking the magazine. “Too late. They’re here. And they aren't alone.”
