Chapter 3 - The Toast of Death
The tension inside the Moretti estate was so thick it felt like a physical weight pressing against the chests of every guest.
Music had resumed, but the notes sounded hollow. Conversations were whispered behind raised champagne flutes, every eye darting between Aleandro, who had retreated to his private study, and Valentina, who was currently standing by the bar with a face like thunder.
Valentina’s father, Don Salvatore Romano, materialized beside her, his face dark with suppressed fury.
“You made a fool of yourself out there, Valentina,” Salvatore muttered under his breath, leaning close to his daughter. “You let a maid’s brat upstage you, and then you let Aleandro humiliate you by handing out a million dollars like it was pocket change. What is wrong with you?”
“Shut up, Father!” Valentina hissed, her fingernails digging into the stem of her glass so hard her knuckles turned white. “It was supposed to be a joke! She was supposed to cry and run away! Did you see the way Aleandro looked at that child? It wasn't pity. It was... recognition.”
Salvatore froze, his eyes narrowing. “Recognition of what?”
“I don't know,” Valentina snarled, taking a furious gulp of her champagne. “But she has to go. And so does her mother. Before this wedding happens in six weeks, I am going to make sure every trace of them is wiped off this estate.”
Across the room, standing near the service doors, Sophia held Emma tightly. They needed to leave. Now. The black card was still tucked into Emma’s dress pocket, a glowing beacon of danger. Sophia knew men like Aleandro Moretti; they didn't hand out fortunes for charity. They did it because they were calculating a debt.
“Mommy, my tummy hurts,” Emma whispered, rubbing her eyes sleepily against Sophia’s shoulder.
“I know, baby. We’re going home right now,” Sophia whispered back, turning toward the exit.
Before she could take two steps, a sharp, piercing shriek cut through the music.
Everyone turned.
Valentina Romano dropped her champagne flute. The crystal shattered against the marble, spraying golden liquid across the floor. Valentina clutched at her throat, her eyes bulging in sheer, unadulterated terror. She opened her mouth to scream, but only a choked, wet gasp came out.
“Valentina!” Salvatore roared, lunging forward as his daughter’s knees buckled.
Valentina hit the marble floor hard. Her body arched violently in a brutal, agonizing seizure, foam bubbling at the corners of her lips. Within seconds, her skin turned an alarming, deathly shade of pale blue.
The orchestra stopped mid-song. Screams erupted as panic tore through the three hundred elite guests. Men scrambled backward, overturning chairs; women wept in horror.
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Salvatore knelt beside his convulsing daughter, pressing his hands against her chest, screaming for a doctor. But it was already too late. With one final, shuddering gasp, Valentina Romano went completely limp, her glazed eyes staring blankly up at the crystal chandeliers.
From the second-floor landing, leaning against the wrought-iron railing with a glass of scotch in his hand, Aleandro Moretti looked down at the dead body of his fiancée. His expression remained entirely unreadable.
