Chapter 3 - The Shadow of the PastThat night, I wasn’t sent back to the drafty servant quarters in the back wing. Instead, Alessandro ordered me to be moved into the East Suite—a sprawling set of rooms overlooking Lake Como, complete with silk sheets, a private bathroom, and an army of guards stationed outside the door.
Emma fell asleep almost instantly, exhausted by the night's chaos, still hugging the blue rabbit like a shield.
I sat on the edge of the plush velvet bed, my mind spinning. Two years ago, my husband, David, had supposedly died in a fiery car crash on the outskirts of Rome. He had left me with nothing: no money, no answers, and a newborn baby. The police called it an accident. But looking at the stitched rabbit on the pillow, a cold dread settled in my stomach.
David hadn’t been an ordinary accountant. Before he vanished, he used to sketch strange symbols on scraps of paper when he thought I wasn't looking. Symbols that looked hauntingly similar to the crow holding a broken dagger.
A soft knock interrupted my thoughts.
The door creaked open, and Alessandro stepped inside, holding a glass of scotch in one hand and a thick manila folder in the other. He had changed out of his formal suit into a black button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up, revealing scarred, muscular forearms.
“May I?” he asked, gesturing to the chair across from me.
“It’s your house, Mr. Moretti,” I said stiffly.
He sat down, placing the folder on the mahogany table between us. He didn’t look like a mob boss at that moment; he looked tired. Weight of an empire pressing down on his shoulders.
“Vivian’s phone records came up,” Alessandro said, staring into his amber drink. “She wasn’t just leaking logistics to the feds. She was selling them to an unknown third party inside our syndicate. Someone who calls himself The Architect.”
“And what does that have to do with me or my daughter’s toy?” I asked defensively.
Alessandro slid the folder across the table. I hesitated, then reached out and opened it. Inside were photographs. Not of me, but of David. Photos taken from surveillance cameras three years ago, showing my dead husband talking to a man whose face was obscured by a dark hood—wearing a jacket with the exact same fabric as Emma’s blue rabbit.
May you like
“Your husband didn't die in that car crash, Mrs. Bennett,” Alessandro said softly. “Or at least, the body in the burnt chassis wasn't his. David Bennett was the original creator of the Corvo cipher. And someone hunted him down.”
My breath caught in my throat. The room seemed to spin.
