Chapter 2 - The Serpent in the HouseDown in the servants’ quarters, the atmosphere was thick with dread.
Hannah Carter sat on the edge of a narrow cot in the staff lounge, her hands trembling so violently she couldn't hold the paper cup of water Vincent Bellini had graciously handed her a few moments ago.
“Drink a little, Hannah,” Vincent said, his voice as smooth and comforting as it had been for twenty years. He placed a paternal hand on her shoulder. “The Boss is going to be fine. Dr. Greene said he’s resting in the medical suite. You have nothing to worry about.”
Hannah looked up, her eyes red-rimmed and filled with unshed tears. “Vincent, Mr. Moretti almost died. In his own study. If anything happens, the police will lock down the estate, the guards will tear the place apart, and... and my little girl was wandering around upstairs. What if someone blames us?”
“No one is going to blame you, child,” Vincent murmured, a faint, almost imperceptible smile touching the corners of his mouth. He patted her shoulder twice—a gesture that had once felt reassuring, but now, in the heavy silence of the room, felt entirely calculated. “You’re a good worker. Just stay here. I’m going to check if the master needs anything else.”
Vincent turned on his heel, adjusting his immaculate black suit jacket. He walked out into the corridor, his posture straight, his steps measured. He reached the end of the hall, turned the corner toward the private elevator, and stopped dead in his tracks.
Two men blocked the doorway.
They weren't ordinary estate guards. They were Marco and Sal—Adrian Moretti’s personal enforcers. Both men wore dark, unbranded suits, and neither of them was smiling.
“Vinnie,” Marco said, his voice flat. “The Boss wants a word.”
Vincent’s heart skipped a beat, but his face remained a mask of polite serenity. He had survived decades in the criminal underworld by never letting his pulse betray him.
“Of course,” Vincent replied smoothly. “I was just heading up to check on the tea service.”
“You’re heading up,” Sal agreed, grabbing Vincent by the expensive fabric of his lapel with terrifying speed and shoving him against the stone wall, “but you aren't checking on tea.”
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Before Vincent could reach for the small derringer hidden inside his cummerbund, Marco’s heavy hand clamped around his wrist, twisting it upward with a sickening crack. Vincent stifled a gasp of pain as a silver Beretta was wrenched from his holster and tossed down the hallway.
“Hands behind your back, old man,” Marco snarled.
