Chapter 4 - The Confession in the Linen Closet
While Anna tended to Maya in the private master bath, Lorenzo walked down the dimly lit service corridor toward the staff quarters on the second floor. His jaw was set, his footsteps heavy and purposeful against the runner carpet.
The staff wing was quiet, smelling faintly of bleach and floor wax. At the end of the hall stood the locker room where the domestic staff stored their personal belongings and uniforms.
Standing nervously outside the door was Ranata—Maya’s mother.
Ranata was a woman in her early thirties with tired eyes, calloused hands, and a posture that spoke of a lifetime of bending to the will of wealthy masters. When she saw Lorenzo step out of the shadows, she dropped to her knees instantly, pressing her forehead against the floorboards in a desperate, instinctual display of submission.
"Mr. Duca! Please! Have mercy!" Ranata sobbed, her voice cracking in absolute terror. "I swear on my soul I didn't steal the clock! Maroni said he saw it in my locker, but someone planted it there! I would never steal from this house! Please, don't hurt my baby—take me instead, just let me see my little girl!"
Lorenzo stood over her, his shadow swallowing her entirely. He did not tell her to get up. He let her feel the gravity of her position, letting the silence stretch until her frantic sobbing echoed off the tile walls.
"Stand up, Ranata," he commanded.
She scrambled to her feet, trembling so violently she had to grip the metal doorframe to keep from collapsing.
"Who planted it?" Lorenzo asked, his voice low, flat, and chillingly devoid of emotion.
Ranata blinked, wiping her tear-soaked face with her apron. "I... I don't know, sir! I opened my locker this afternoon to change into my evening shift uniform, and the golden clock was sitting right on top of my spare shoes. Before I could even pick it up, security was there. Maroni was waiting at the end of the hall like he knew it was coming."
Lorenzo’s eyes narrowed. Maroni. The consigliere who had spent the last two hours pushing for the asset seizure and the immediate termination of the maid.
"Maroni," Lorenzo repeated.
"Yes, sir!" Ranata wept. "And... and Mrs. Higgins, the head housekeeper. She’s been trying to clear out the older staff's wing for weeks to make room for her cousin’s family. They wanted my room. They wanted my position."
A cold, lethal fury settled deep within Lorenzo's chest. For years, he had allowed his uncle and his inner circle to run the day-to-day administrative affairs of the estate while he focused on the syndicate’s broader operations across Europe and the Americas. He had assumed that corruption and cruelty were external threats—rival gangs, crooked politicians, betrayals in the ports.
He had never imagined that the rot was eating away at the very floors of his own home.
"You are not fired, Ranata," Lorenzo said, his voice cutting through her panic like a knife. "Your locker was searched without a warrant, and the evidence was fabricated by a member of my inner administration."
Ranata stared at him, her mouth opening in shock. "Sir?"
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"Go to the third-floor private suite," Lorenzo instructed, turning on his heel. "Your daughter is taking a bath and eating toast. I expect you to be there when she finishes."
Before Ranata could find the words to thank him, Lorenzo was already walking down the corridor toward the administrative offices in the east wing, his knuckles white as he clenched his fists in his pockets.
