Chapter 3 - The Traitor’s Smile
Thirty minutes later, the private study of the DeLuca estate was dark except for the amber glow of the desk lamp and the blazing fire in the hearth.
Isabella sat wrapped in a warm wool blanket on the velvet sofa, sipping hot tea while Bruno rested his heavy head across her bare feet. Sophia had quietly taken Emma to the guest wing, ensuring the little girl was safe and asleep.
Lorenzo stood by the window, staring out into the manicured gardens. His face was a mask carved from granite.
The door to the study opened softly.
Vincent Moretti stepped inside, impeccably dressed in a charcoal three-piece suit, his silver-rimmed glasses catching the light. He carried a leather briefcase tucked under his arm.
“Lorenzo?” Vincent said, offering a warm, professional smile. “Marcus said it was an emergency regarding the shipping port acquisition in New Jersey. At two in the morning?”
Vincent stopped dead in his tracks.
He had taken three steps past the mahogany desk when he saw her.
Isabella looked up from the sofa, her dark eyes fixing on the lawyer with a look of pure, unadulterated venom.
Vincent’s face went chalk white. The briefcase slipped from his fingers, hitting the Persian rug with a dull thud. His composure—the polished, untouchable mask of a brilliant corporate lawyer—shattered instantly.
“I... I must be seeing things,” Vincent stammered, taking a panicked step backward toward the door.
“You aren't seeing things, Vincent,” Lorenzo said softly, turning away from the window. He walked toward the desk with slow, deliberate steps.
“Lorenzo, listen to me,” Vincent babbled, raising his hands defensively, sweat beading instantly on his forehead. “It wasn't my idea! It was the syndicate council! They said Isabella’s family ties to the dock union were a liability! They ordered the hit on her car!”
Lorenzo didn't shout. He didn't lose his temper. He simply reached into his coat drawer, pulled out a heavy steel Beretta, and laid it quietly on the polished wood of the desk.
“You verified the dental records, Vincent,” Lorenzo said, his voice terrifyingly calm. “You stood at my side at the cemetery. You watched me drop dirt onto a casket containing a stranger’s remains that you arranged to be burned beyond recognition.”
“I had no choice!” Vincent shrieked, his voice cracking as fear finally broke his defenses. “If I refused them, they would have killed my wife, my children! You know how the council operates!”
“Yes,” Lorenzo replied, stepping around the desk until he was standing just inches from the trembling lawyer. “I do know how they operate. Because I run them.”
Before Vincent could lunge for the door, Lorenzo’s fist crashed into the lawyer’s jaw with the force of a wrecking ball.
Vincent crumpled to the floor, blood spilling from his lip, gasping for air.
May you like
Lorenzo crouched down beside him, grabbing him by the silk tie and lifting his head.
“You’re going to pick up your phone, Vincent,” Lorenzo whispered into his ear. “You’re going to call the head of the council. And you’re going to tell them that the ghost of the DeLuca estate has come home to collect.”
