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The heavy mahogany doors of the east wing did not creak when Lorenzo pushed them open; they swung with a quiet, expensive finality, as if they knew better than to make a sound. / Chapter 2 / 10

Chapter 2 - The Red Ledger in the VaultsThe basement of the Duca estate was older than the house itself—a labyrinth of stone arches and iron-reinforced doors where secrets were stored like vintage wine, dark and heavy and impossible to wash out.

Lorenzo walked down the spiral staircase with Pino trotting closely at his heel, the dog's claws clicking rhythmically against the damp stone. They bypassed the wine racks, bypassed the armory, and stopped at the third-to-last door on the left. A digital keypad glowed a faint, ghostly blue in the dark.

He punched in an eight-digit sequence—his mother's birthday, reversed—and the heavy steel door clicked open.

Inside sat a mahogany desk, a leather armchair, and a single, locked filing cabinet containing the personnel files of every soul who drew a breath or a paycheck under the Duca roof. Lorenzo pulled open the drawer marked Domestic Staff: 2023–2026 and flipped straight to the 'C's.

Clara Moretti.

Wait.

Lorenzo’s finger froze on the page. He dragged it back, his eyes narrowing as he read the printed text beneath the photograph.

Clara Moretti. No relation to the Donato faction, despite the shared surname—a common enough coincidence in the southern provinces. But underneath her employment history, listed under 'Emergency Contact,' was a name that made his blood run instantly cold: Father: Salvatore Gallo.

Salvatore Gallo. The man who had orchestrated the car bomb that killed Lorenzo's younger brother twelve years ago before disappearing into the Sicilian underground with five million dollars of syndicate gold.

Lorenzo slammed the file shut. The sound echoed hollowly off the stone walls.

So that was it. This wasn't about a stolen watch. This wasn't about a petty theft by a low-level maid. This was a setup. Moretti hadn't just stumbled upon a crime; he had planted the watch in Clara's locker to flush out the daughter of a ghost. If Salvatore Gallo had a daughter working in this house, and grandchildren running through these gardens, then the war Lorenzo had spent a decade trying to bury was about to claw its way back to the surface.

And little Mia—the girl who smelled of lavender soap and held a one-eyed stuffed rabbit—was sitting right in the crosshairs.

"Pino," Lorenzo commanded softly.

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The Doberman stepped forward, ears pricked, waiting for the syntax of violence.

"Find Clara. Bring her here. Quietly."

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