Chapter 2 - The Senator’s Dirty LaundryUpstairs in the private study, the bulletproof glass windows looked out over the sprawling, rain-slicked lawns of the Vance estate. The room was dark, illuminated only by the amber glow of a single desk lamp and the fire crackling in the hearth.
Delphine Ashworth sat tied to a high-backed leather chair, her ivory suit hopelessly stained with dirt and wine, her platinum hair disheveled. Standing over her was Rafael Cortez, methodically cleaning the barrel of a Sig Sauer 9mm with a lint-free cloth.
When the heavy oak doors swung open, Matteo walked in. He wasn't carrying Sofia anymore; she had finally fallen into a deep, medicated sleep under the watchful eye of the estate’s private pediatrician in the nursery. Matteo had left Josephine sitting by the child's bedside, holding her small, warm hand.
Matteo walked to the mahogany desk, pulled out his leather cigar case, clipped the end of a robusto, and lit it. He took a long, slow draw, letting the gray smoke curl around his hard, handsome face before he spoke.
"Matteo, this is madness," Delphine spat, her voice trembling despite her defiant glare. "My father is going to send a SWAT team here by morning. You cannot hold me hostage in my own home!"
"Your home?" Matteo chuckled, a low, humorless sound that lacked any warmth. "Delphine, let’s get something straight. The land this mansion sits on was bought with blood money I laundered before you even graduated from finishing school. Every piece of crystal, every stitch of clothing on your back, and every breath you take in this ZIP code exists entirely at my pleasure."
"You wouldn't dare," she hissed, though her eyes betrayed a creeping, paralyzing dread. "My father has files on your operations. Federal indictments ready to drop if anything happens to me."
Matteo exhaled a cloud of smoke, walking slowly toward her until he stood inches away. He leaned down, his voice dropping to a lethal whisper.
"Your father, Senator Thomas Ashworth, has spent the last three years taking fifty-thousand-dollar cash kickbacks from my shipping ports in exchange for turning a blind eye to our import manifests," Matteo said smoothly. "I have the wire transfers, the Swiss bank account numbers, and the encrypted text messages logged on a server in Zurich that automatically dumps to three different federal news agencies if my heart ever stops beating for more than twenty-four hours."
Delphine’s face drained of what little color it had left. "That's... that's a lie."
"Rafael," Matteo motioned with his cigar.
Rafael stepped forward, tossing a thick manila folder into Delphine’s lap. The pages spilled open, revealing high-resolution photographs of Senator Ashworth accepting briefcases filled with unmarked hundred-dollar bills inside a private VIP room at Chicago’s most exclusive steakhouse.
"Oh," Rafael grinned, leaning against the bookshelf. "And that's just volume one, sweetheart. Volume two is all about your little extracurricular activities—the offshore accounts you set up under dummy corporations to siphon funds from the Vance Charitable Foundation."
Delphine stared at the papers, her breath hitching. The arrogance that had defined her entire existence evaporated, leaving behind a terrified, cornered animal.
"Why?" she whispered, tears of pure rage and panic finally spilling over her designer cheekbones. "Why are you doing this over a fat, awkward maid and a traumatized brat? She’s not even your real daughter!"
The room went dead silent.
Even Rafael stopped polishing his gun.
Matteo slowly stood up straight. His expression didn't change, but the air pressure in the room seemed to drop by ten degrees. He reached out, grabbing Delphine by the jaw with one hand, forcing her to look up into his terrifying, unblinking eyes.
"Never," Matteo whispered, his voice vibrating with a deadly, quiet fury, "speak of Sofia that way again."
"She—she’s just a reminder of Elena!" Delphine choked out around his fingers. "Everyone in Chicago knows it! Elena was sleeping with your head of security when her car blew up! Sofia isn't even a Vance!"
CRACK.
The sound of Matteo’s palm striking Delphine’s cheek echoed off the stone walls like a gunshot. Her head snapped violently to the side, a split lip blooming a bright, crimson drop of blood down her chin.
"Rafael," Matteo said, his voice cold as arctic ice as he wiped his hand with a linen handkerchief. "Call the Senator. Tell him his daughter has decided to take an extended, permanent vacation in the Cayman Islands. If he asks questions, remind him of the tax evasion charges."
"And Delphine?" Rafael asked, sliding his pistol back into its shoulder holster.
May you like
Matteo turned his back, walking toward the tall glass windows to look out into the pouring rain.
"Pack her bags. Put her on the midnight cargo flight to our facility in Bogotá. Let her see what a real dungeon looks like for a week or two. Maybe it will teach her some manners."
