Chapter 7 - THE WATCH OF THE DEADOn the screen, Marco’s calm demeanor vanished instantly. His face twisted into a mask of pure, ugly panic.
“You shouldn't be awake, little girl,” Marco hissed, his hand darting beneath the pillow to retrieve the white packet, but his movements were clumsy, hurried.
“Your watch ticks backwards,” Lily mumbled sleepily, rubbing her eyes with her small fists, clutching her blue stuffed rabbit. “Daddy had one just like it. He said Mr. Marco gave it to him so they could keep a secret.”
In the security office, the silence was absolute. You could hear the faint hum of the server fans cooling the hardware.
Lorenzo slowly turned his head to look at me. His expression was no longer cold or calculating; it was dark, stormy, and consumed by a terrifying realization.
"Fifteen years," Lorenzo whispered, his voice shaking with suppressed fury. "Marco wasn't just skimming from the docks. Marco was the one who set the fire."
"What?" I breathed, staring at him in horror.
"The night your husband supposedly stole my twelve million euros and died in that warehouse fire," Lorenzo said, every word dripping with venom, "the official story was that he betrayed us and tried to escape. But the body in that fire was burned beyond recognition. We identified him by a platinum Omega watch I had gifted my top accountants."
Lorenzo turned back to the monitor, where Marco was now backing away from Lily’s cot, grabbing his radio.
"Marco gave your husband that watch," Lorenzo continued, his voice dropping into a lethal register. "Marco didn't just help him steal the money. Marco killed him, burned the warehouse to cover his tracks, and framed your husband for the entire heist so no one would ever look at the head of security."
"And then he let me walk into this house," I whispered, the horrifying puzzle pieces snapping into place in my mind. "He knew who I was. He brought me here as a living insurance policy, knowing that if anyone ever dug up the past, the blame would fall on the widow of the dead thief."
Lorenzo didn't answer. He didn't need to.
He unholstered the customized Beretta 92FS from beneath his tailored jacket, checked the clip with a sharp clack, and flicked off the safety.
"Stay here," Lorenzo ordered, his voice commanding and absolute.
"No!" I grabbed his sleeve. "That's my daughter out there! I'm coming with you!"
Lorenzo looked down at my hand gripping his arm, then up into my eyes. For a fraction of a second, I saw something raw and protective flash in his gaze.
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"Stay behind me," he said grimly.
We burst out of the security office and tore down the hallway toward the nursery, our footsteps thundering against the hardwood floor.
