Chapter 5 - The Glass House
The rainy autumn weather returned the following evening, slicking the cobblestone driveway of the Moretti estate with a dark, mirror-like sheen.
At seven o'clock sharp, a sleek black sedan pulled up to the front entrance. Julian Vance stepped out, adjusting his fine cashmere coat, a smug, arrogant smile resting on his aged face. Beside him, Isabella looked pale and rigid, her eyes nervously scanning the grand marble facade of the mansion as if expecting snipers on the roof.
"Pull yourself together, Isabella," Julian hissed under his breath as they walked up the grand steps. "Alessandro doesn't know anything. If he had proof, we’d already be dead. He called this dinner to save face after acknowledging that bastard child."
"Father, you didn't see his eyes yesterday," Isabella whispered back, her hands trembling under her leather gloves. "He knows something. I feel it."
"Silence!" Julian commanded sharply. "We hold forty percent of his shipping terminals. He needs our banking connections to clean his money. He won't dare touch us."
The heavy oak doors opened automatically, revealing Marco standing in the grand foyer. He wore his formal dark suit, though his jacket hung slightly loose over his right chest—a clear sign he was carrying heavy iron.
"Mr. Vance. Miss Vance," Marco bowed with icy politeness. "The boss is waiting for you in the formal dining room."
Julian smirked, tossing his coat to a waiting butler. "Lead the way, Marco."
The formal dining room was an imposing space—high vaulted ceilings, crystal chandeliers throwing sharp beams of light across a twenty-foot mahogany table, and dark red velvet drapes covering the tall windows.
At the head of the long table sat Alessandro Moretti. He wore an immaculate charcoal suit, his broad shoulders squared, his hands resting flat on the polished wood. Opposite him, two place settings had been prepared with fine china, silver cutlery, and crystal wine glasses.
There were no other guests. No lieutenants, no advisors, no bodyguards in sight. Just Alessandro, sitting alone in the middle of the vast room.
"Alessandro, my boy!" Julian announced boisterously as he stepped into the room, spreading his arms wide. "A tragic week, truly tragic! But life must go on, yes? We must discuss the future of our partnership!"
"Sit down, Julian. Isabella," Alessandro said. His voice was smooth, quiet, and devoid of any readable emotion.
Julian’s smile faltered slightly at the cold greeting, but he pulled out the high-backed chair and sat down, with Isabella hesitating before sitting beside him.
A young butler entered, pouring deep crimson wine into their glasses before silently exiting and pulling the double doors shut behind him.
Julian picked up his glass, swirling the wine. "I must admit, Alessandro, the rumors circulating through the city today are rather extraordinary. People are saying you’ve taken in a child? Claiming he is your heir?"
Alessandro picked up his own glass, looking through the crimson liquid at the man sitting opposite him.
"It is not a rumor, Julian," Alessandro stated clearly. "He is my son. Lucas Alessandro Moretti."
Julian let out a forced, hearty laugh. "Come now, Alessandro! A child born to a cleaning woman? You cannot seriously expect the commission to respect a boy of such humble origins. If you need an heir, marry Isabella! Give the family a legitimate child with noble blood!"
Isabella kept her eyes glued to her plate, her fingers clutching her napkin so tightly her knuckles turned blue.
Alessandro set his glass down with a quiet clink.
"Rosa Mendes was not a cleaning woman, Julian," Alessandro said, leaning forward into the golden light of the chandelier. "Her real name was Claire. Three years ago, you threatened her life to force her away from me. You told her that if she stayed, you would launch a war that would burn this city to the ground."
Julian’s laughter died instantly in his throat. The air in the dining room became dangerously thin.
"Alessandro... you are mistaken—" Julian began, his voice losing its confident bravado.
"She went into hiding to protect our unborn child," Alessandro continued, ignoring the older man's interruption. "She endured poverty, solitude, and fear for three long years. And when she realized she was dying of an incurable blood illness, she brought my son back to the only place she knew he would be safe."
Isabella gasped, covering her mouth with her hand. "Dying...? She was already dying?"
Alessandro turned his piercing gaze onto Isabella. "Yes. She had six months to live. But you didn't know that, did you? You thought she was here to take my heart back. So you paid your nephew, Victor, five hundred thousand dollars to push her down my stairs."
"This is outrageous slander!" Julian slammed his hand onto the table, his face turning bright red as he stood up. "I am a member of the Banking Board! I will not sit here and be accused of murder by a glorified gangster! We are leaving, Isabella!"
"Sit down, Julian," a voice growled from the heavy shadow near the cellar doors.
Julian froze.
From the dark corner of the dining room stepped Victor Vance—his hands bound securely in steel handcuffs, his face bruised and swollen, escorted by Marco holding a heavy, silenced pistol against the back of Victor's neck.
Julian stared at his battered nephew, his jaw dropping in absolute terror. The glass house of his lies shattered into ten thousand pieces.
"Victor..." Julian stammered, his knees buckling as he collapsed back into his chair.
"He talked, Uncle Julian," Victor rasped through broken teeth, his eyes full of fear. "He knows everything. He knows about the Cayman account... he knows about the cameras..."
May you like
Alessandro stood up slowly from his seat at the head of the table. He didn't draw a gun. He didn't shout. He simply walked around the long mahogany table, his heavy leather shoes making slow, rhythmic thuds on the floor, until he was standing directly behind Julian Vance’s chair.
"You took the mother of my child," Alessandro whispered, leaning down until his shadow completely engulfed the older man. "Now, I take everything you own."
