Chapter 4 - The House of SpiesA heavy, suffocating silence fell over the grand foyer. Dante’s hand twitched near his jacket, but Adrian didn't look back at his right-hand man. His gaze remained locked on me, searching my eyes for any sign of a bluff.
"Explain," Adrian commanded, his voice dropping an octave into a tone that promised absolute agony for whoever was lying.
"Dante’s cameras weren't just disabled by an outside hacker," I said, turning my gaze to face Dante directly. A cold, sweet sense of vindication washed over me. "The bypass code was entered from the master terminal in the private study—a code that only you, Mr. Valente, and your head of security possess. But more than that... Dante was caught on a municipal traffic camera stepping away from the dumpster three minutes before I found Emma."
Dante let out a sharp, harsh laugh, though a bead of sweat rolled down his temple. "Boss, she's delusional! She's working with Julian Vance—everyone knows Vance tried to buy off our logistics sector last month. She's just a plant!"
"If I'm a plant, Dante, why are you sweating so much?" I countered smoothly, taking a step forward. "And why, exactly, did you clear out your personal offshore account yesterday morning?"
Adrian’s head snapped toward Dante. The absolute fury in the mafia boss's eyes was terrifying to behold.
"Dante," Adrian said softly. Just one word, but it carried the weight of a death sentence.
"Boss, don't listen to her—" Dante stammered, stepping back toward the heavy front doors.
In a blur of motion too fast for the eye to track, Adrian drew a customized Beretta from his waistband and cocked it. The metallic click echoed like thunder through the marble hall. Before Dante could draw his own weapon, two armed guards materialized from the shadows, pinning Dante’s arms behind his back and slamming him to the floor.
"Take him to the basement holding cell," Adrian ordered, never breaking eye contact with me. "And don't let him speak until I get down there."
As Dante was dragged away, cursing my name and screaming bloody murder, Adrian slowly lowered his gun. He turned back to me, his expression unreadable, a mixture of profound shock and dangerous curiosity.
"You're not just a nursing home worker," Adrian said slowly, stepping closer. "Who are you really, Isabella?"
Before I could answer, a soft, urgent cry echoed from the top of the grand staircase.
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Karen Mitchell, the nanny, stood at the landing holding a swaddled bundle in her arms. Her face was pale, her eyes wide with undisguised panic as she looked down at the scene below.
"Mr. Valente," Karen stammered, her voice shaking. "Emma just woke up... and she's asking for Isabella."
