Chapter 3 - THE WOLF AT THE DOORThe revelation of Giovanni’s journal detonated through the estate like a shockwave. By nightfall, Mrs. Gable and two accomplices from the kitchen staff were locked in the basement holding cells, awaiting the kind of swift, merciless justice that only the Moretti name could deliver.
But the storm outside was nothing compared to the storm brewing within the family.
Lorenzo’s phone buzzed incessantly on the mahogany desk. He ignored call after call, his jaw clenched as he stared at his father’s final written decree.
"They already know," Lorenzo said grimly, tossing his phone onto the desk.
"Who?" I asked, sitting nervously by the fire with a fresh blanket draped over my shoulders.
"My uncle, Victor Moretti," Lorenzo’s voice grew icy. "When my father suffered his stroke five years ago, Victor expected to inherit the syndicate and all of our legitimate assets. But my father named me successor, keeping Victor on a tight leash. If Victor finds out my father left everything—including the hidden family contingency funds—to an outsider... to you and your unborn child... he will tear this estate apart brick by brick."
As if summoned by the very mention of his name, the massive iron security gates at the front entrance of the estate shrieked in protest.
CRASH.
The sound of shattering glass echoed from the front foyer. Shouts rang out, followed by the distinct, unmistakable sound of a suppressed pistol shot.
Lorenzo stood up instantly, his hand sliding a heavy Beretta 9mm from his shoulder holster. He locked eyes with me, his expression grim and resolute.
"Stay in this room. Lock the deadbolt behind me. Do not open it for anyone—do you hear me? Anyone—unless you hear me give the password."
"What password?" I asked, my voice trembling.
"Lily," he said, his eyes softening for a fraction of a second. Then, the cold mask returned, and he slipped out into the darkened hallway, merging seamlessly with the shadows.
I locked the heavy oak door, my hands shaking so violently I could barely slide the deadbolt home. I pressed my back against the wood, listening to the muffled chaos erupting downstairs—the heavy boots pounding against the marble floors, the shouts of armed men, the shattering of expensive porcelain.
Suddenly, a heavy thud hit the outside of the study door.
"Chloe! Open up!"
It was a voice I didn't recognize—rough, gravelly, and dripping with venom.
"Go away!" I yelled back, clutching my belly as I backed toward the heavy mahogany desk.
"Don't play games with me, little whore," the voice sneered. "I know you're in there. Uncle Victor sends his regards. Open the damn door, or I'll blow the hinges off and put a bullet through that bastard child you're carrying!"
Panic paralyzed me for a heartbeat. My eyes darted around the room. There was no other exit—only the bulletproof windows overlooking a hundred-foot drop into the snowy ravine below.
The heavy metal barrel of a gun slammed against the wooden door panel, splintering the frame right beside the lock.
May you like
One more strike and the door would give way.
I backed toward the fireplace, grabbing a heavy brass poker just as the lock shattered with a deafening snap and the door swung wide open.
