Chapter 3 - The Ghost in the West Wing
The rain outside lashed violently against the stained-glass windows of the grand hall, casting distorted, bleeding colors across the marble floor.
Matteo stood frozen, his eyes darting between my finger resting on the trigger of my weapon and the infant sleeping peacefully against my chest. The mask was entirely gone now. The charming, untouchable syndicate boss was stripped bare, revealing a man drowning in his own paranoia.
"Where is she, Matteo?" I asked, each word deliberate, heavy with a menace that made the armed guards near the front doors unconsciously take a step back.
"I don't know what you're talking about," Matteo muttered, his jaw twitching.
"Don't test me," I stepped forward, the barrel of my gun leveling straight at his chest. "The DNA report confirms this child shares fifty percent of your DNA, and a familial match with Valentina's bloodline registry from St. Helena Hospital. Twelve years ago, my first son was supposedly stillborn. But this baby is a newborn—born less than a week ago. And according to Sophia, he’s been hidden in the servants' wing for three days. Which means someone gave birth to him in this house this week."
Valentina let out a low moan, sliding down the mahogany wall until she sat in a heap on the floor, her silk robe pooling around her like water.
"She’s back," Valentina whispered, her voice trembling so violently the words were barely intelligible. "I told you she would come back, Matteo. I told you keeping her locked in the west wing was a ticking time bomb!"
Matteo shot Valentina a look of absolute, murderous fury. "Shut your mouth, you foolish woman! You're digging our graves!"
"She's already dead, Matteo!" Valentina screamed, tears finally breaking free, carving tracks through her immaculate makeup. "She's been a ghost for twelve years! But she left him! She left him right where we would find him as a warning!"
I lowered the gun slightly, my mind racing through the labyrinth of lies I had lived inside for over a decade.
"Who?" I demanded, looking between my wife and my brother. "Who is in the west wing?"
Sophia stepped forward from the shadows of the staircase, her small hand letting go of the red umbrella. She walked across the marble floor until she stood right beside me, looking up with absolute fearlessness.
"The lady with the painted portrait," Sophia said softly.
My eyes drifted once more to the massive oil painting hanging near the base of the grand staircase.
For twelve years, that painting had been covered by a heavy velvet drape. After my first wife, Elena, supposedly died of postpartum hemorrhage, Matteo had insisted we drape the portrait out of respect for her memory, claiming looking at her face brought too much pain to the household. I had honored that grief. I had trusted his empathy.
I walked slowly toward the painting, holding the baby securely with one arm. With my free hand, I grabbed the edge of the heavy velvet curtain and ripped it down.
The fabric crashed to the floor, raising a small cloud of dust.
The woman in the portrait stared down at me with piercing green eyes—eyes that didn't belong to a tragic victim of childbirth complications, but to a survivor.
"Elena never died," I whispered, the horrifying realization washing over me.
"She didn't die," Sophia confirmed quietly. "Your brother locked her in the old underground medical ward beneath the servants' wing twelve years ago. Because she found out what he and Valentina were doing."
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Matteo lunged.
With a roar of pure desperation, my brother launched himself across the hall, aiming straight for my throat.
