Chapter 3 - Midnight Confessions
Night fell over the Piedmont hills, bringing with it a violent autumn rainstorm that lashed against the villa's reinforced windows.
The grand halls of Villa Bellini were plunged into shadows, lit only by the occasional flash of lightning.
Lorenzo sat behind the massive mahogany desk in his private library on the second floor, a glass of untouched vintage scotch at his elbow.
At his feet, curled atop an antique cashmere throw blanket, slept Barnaby.
The veterinarian had cleaned the pup, treated its malnutrition, and bandaged a sprained paw.
For the first time in five years, the suffocating silence of Lorenzo’s study was broken by the rhythmic, peaceful breathing of another living creature.
Lorenzo rubbed his temples, staring at the encrypted laptop open in front of him.
The background check Marco had initiated was already returning alarming inconsistencies.
Clara Moretti was not a simple domestic worker from the northern suburbs.
Her real name was Chiara Rossi, and her late husband was not a factory worker, but an elite forensic auditor for the Milanese authorities.
Eighteen months ago, he had been found dead in a staged vehicle explosion after uncovering a money-laundering network linking corrupt politicians to Matteo Salieri.
Salieri was Lorenzo’s fiercest rival, a sadistic syndicate boss whose brutality threatened to ignite a total war across the region.
Clara had fled with her newborn daughter, changing identities, cutting ties, and burying herself in the belly of the beast by taking a job in Lorenzo’s house.
She had calculated that Lorenzo Duca’s fortress was the only place in Italy where Salieri’s assassins would never dare to trespass openly.
A sudden crash of thunder shook the heavy glass panes, rattling the crystal chandelier overhead.
Barnaby raised his head, letting out a soft, nervous whimper before settling his nose back onto his paws.
A second later, the library door pushed inward with a faint creak.
Lorenzo’s hand moved smoothly to the drawer where his Beretta was concealed.
Through the dim doorway wandered Mia, dragging an oversized yellow blanket behind her like a trail of fallen leaves.
She was rubbing her eyes, her bare feet silent on the parquet floor.
Lorenzo released the weapon, his brow furrowing in irritation and bewilderment.
“Why are you out of bed, Mia?” he asked, keeping his voice carefully modulated.
Mia did not answer immediately; she spotted Barnaby on the floor and her face instantly brightened.
She dropped to her knees, wrapping her tiny arms around the sleeping puppy, who happily licked her chin.
“The sky is shouting,” Mia whispered, leaning her head against the dog’s clean, golden fur.
“It is just a storm,” Lorenzo replied, closing his laptop screen to conceal the sensitive documents.
“Your mother must be frantic looking for you.”
“Mama is crying,” Mia said matter-of-factly, her hazel eyes looking up at him through the gloom.
The raw simplicity of the revelation made Lorenzo’s chest tighten once more.
“Why is she crying?”
“She looks at the door and holds the little silver cross,” the child answered, stroking Barnaby’s ears.
“She thinks the bad men with the fire are going to find us here.”
Lorenzo went completely still.
A three-year-old child had just confirmed what his intelligence reports had only hinted at.
Clara knew that Salieri’s hunters were closing in on her trail.
“Are you afraid of the thunder, Mia?” Lorenzo asked, deliberately shifting the subject away from the violence that shadowed her life.
Mia shook her head, standing up and walking toward the grand desk until she was standing right beside his leather chair.
She rested her small chin on the polished mahogany edge, gazing directly into his eyes.
“No. You are bigger than the thunder.”
Lorenzo felt an unfamiliar warmth surge behind his ribs, a sensation he had buried on the day his own younger brother was murdered twelve years ago.
He had spent his adulthood convincing the world that he was a monster to keep from being preyed upon.
Yet this child saw his terrifying presence not as a threat, but as an unbreakable shield.
He reached down, his large, calloused hand hovering awkwardly over her head for a second before he gently rested his palm against her curls.
“Nothing in this house will ever hurt you, little one,” he found himself saying, the promise slipping past his lips before his rational mind could stop it.
Mia smiled, yawning widely as the heaviness of sleep began to overtake her.
She leaned against his thigh, her small body completely relaxed in the presence of a man whose name made governors tremble.
Footsteps hurried down the carpeted hallway outside, and Clara appeared in the doorway, her hair disheveled and her eyes wild with dread.
She stopped dead in her tracks, taking in the scene: the syndicate boss gently steadying her sleepy daughter while a golden puppy slept peacefully at his feet.
May you like
“Chiara,” Lorenzo said softly, using her real name for the first time.
Clara’s breath caught in her throat, the color completely draining from her face.
