Chapter 4 - WEAPONS AND VELVET
Living in the Vance estate felt like living in a gilded cage. For the next three weeks, I was not allowed to leave the grounds, but I was given total freedom within the walls.
My days became consumed by Leo. The little boy followed me everywhere, his small hand clutched tightly in mine as we walked through the sprawling estate gardens. He learned to say his first word while sitting in my lap by the fountain: "Ma."
The sound made my heart ache with a strange, sweet pain. I wasn't his mother, but the bond growing between us was unbreakable.
Julian watched us from his study balcony every afternoon. Slowly, the cold barrier between us began to thaw. We shared late-night dinners in the library, talking about things outside the mafia—my love for art, his memories of growing up on the coast, and the shared grief of losing the woman who connected us.
"You don't belong in this world, Mara," Julian said one evening as we sat by the fireplace, drinking vintage wine. "You have a gentle soul."
"Gentle doesn't mean weak, Julian," I replied, looking him dead in the eye. "My mother survived twenty years on the run. I survived working three jobs to pay off her medical bills. I can handle more than you think."
Julian stared at me, a faint, genuine smile touching his lips—the first real smile I had ever seen on his face. "Yes... you certainly have your sister's fire."
He stood up, walked over to my chair, and extended his hand. "Come with me. It's time you learned how to defend yourself."
He led me down to the underground firing range beneath the mansion. Over the next two weeks, Julian taught me how to handle a firearm, how to spot a tail, and how to read a room for exits. His hands were steady as he corrected my posture, his chest warm against my back as he guided my aim.
An electric tension began to build between us—a slow, burning fire that neither of us dared to acknowledge. Every touch felt loaded; every glance shared across the dining table carried a heavy, dangerous weight.
But the peace couldn't last.
On a Tuesday afternoon while Julian was away in the city attending a meeting with the Commission, Beatrice walked into my suite without knocking. She threw a thick folder onto my bed.
"Your fairy tale ends today, girl," Beatrice said coldly.
I stood up from the piano. "What is this, Beatrice?"
"Proof," she sneered. "That you are a D'Angelo Trojan horse. Financial records show three wire transfers sent from a D'Angelo shell company to your mother's hospital bills five years ago. You were bought and paid for long before you walked into Bellagio."
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My breath hitched. "That's impossible! My mother’s bills were paid through a anonymous charity foundation!"
"That's what they wanted you to think," Beatrice snapped. "Julian is blinded by your face and his son's affection. But I am not. Guards! Lock her in the cellar!"
