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The silence in the dining room felt heavier than the marble beneath Rocco’s boots. His dark eyes flickered from Valentina’s retreat to the tiny infant in eight-year-old Sophia’s arms. The hospital bracelet—a faded band of clinical plastic—sat against the baby’s skin like a ticking bomb. / Chapter 3 / 40

Chapter 3 - The Traitor Within

Downstairs in the dining room, Rocco had drawn a 9mm Beretta from his shoulder holster, placing it flat on the mahogany table right beside the hospital bracelet. The lawyers had already been dismissed—scurrying out like rats the moment the atmosphere turned lethal. Only Marco and Valentina remained.

"Marco," Rocco said without looking away from his wife. "Check the perimeter cameras for the kitchen service entrance between 10:00 PM and midnight. I want to see who accessed the vineyard tunnel."

"Boss," Marco said, his voice tight. "Dominic Vance wiped the server logs for that sector twenty minutes ago."

Rocco’s gaze snapped to his consigliere. "Vance?"

"He told my men there was an electrical glitch," Marco swallowed hard. "He’s down in the security bunker right now."

A slow, terrifying smile touched the corners of Rocco’s mouth. Everything clicked into place with the precision of a Swiss watch. The missing footage. The precise timing. The fact that an infant could be smuggled into the inner sanctum of the Moretti mansion without a single alarm tripping.

"Valentina," Rocco murmured, walking slowly toward his wife until she was backed against the stone fireplace. "You didn't just try to get rid of a baby. You’ve been hiding a living ghost for eight years. Who helped you switch the medical files? Was it Vance? Or was it your brother in Palermo?"

Valentina lifted her chin, the mask of elegance snapping back into place, sharp and defiant. "You think you own everything, Rocco. You think your bloodline is sacred, built on bullets and fear. But you were weak. You loved an idea more than a family. If that boy grew up under your roof, he would have inherited your empire—and I couldn't let another Moretti rule over what my family built."

"Your family?" Rocco laughed, a dark, humorless sound that rattled the wine glasses. "Your family was selling olive oil out of a broken truck in Calabria when I married you. I made you a queen."

"And you made me a prisoner," Valentina hissed, her eyes blazing with pure venom.

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