Chapter 2 - The Housekeeper’s ConfessionSophia was still standing near the service entrance, frozen in place like a statue carved from grief and fear. Her silver tray had clattered to the ground several minutes ago, a pitcher of water spilling across the cobblestones like a spreading stain of ice.
Little Emma stayed pressed against my leg, her small hand clutching the fabric of my trousers. I knelt down, gently prying her fingers loose and handing her over to one of my trusted female guards.
"Take her inside. Give her sweets, and keep her safe," I instructed, my voice softening just a fraction for the child before hardening back into iron as I turned to Sophia.
"Sophia," I called out across the courtyard.
She flinched as if I had struck her with a whip. Slowly, she walked forward, her head bowed, her hands twisting the hem of her black maid's apron into knots.
"Mr. Moretti," she choked out, her voice barely a whisper above the rustle of the white roses. "I... I tried to tell you. So many times. But Miss Romano... she said if I spoke a single word about my husband, or about what happened in the library... little Emma would join him in the river."
The surrounding guests—capos, politicians, and business partners who normally controlled billions—sat in stunned silence. Nobody dared clear their throat. In my world, betrayal was common, but threatening a child crossed a line written in blood.
Julian tried to back away toward the exit, his eyes darting frantically toward the locked gates where my heavy enforcers stood like iron pillars.
"This is insane," Julian spat, his voice rising in panic. "You're listening to a hysterical maid and a brat over family? Alessandro, think about the Romano syndicate! If you ruin this wedding, the Sicilian ports are closed to us forever!"
"The Sicilian ports can burn to ash," I said slowly, standing up to my full height. I pulled the Beretta from my shoulder holster, the sharp click of the safety disengaging sounding like a death knell in the open air.
I didn't aim at Julian yet. I aimed at the marble floor right between his Italian leather shoes. Bang.
The deafening roar of the gunshot echoed off the mansion walls. Julian shrieked like a kicked dog, stumbling backward and tripping over a decorative urn of white roses, crashing hard into the dirt.
"You always were impatient, cousin," I murmured, walking over and standing above him, pressing the cold barrel of my gun right against the bridge of his nose. "You wanted my seat at the head of the table. You wanted the syndicates, the shipping lanes, the eastern seaboard. But you forgot one fundamental rule of the Moretti family."
Julian whimpered, his eyes crossed as he stared cross-eyed at the black metal circle pressed against his skin. "W-What rule?"
"Everything you tried to steal was already mine to burn," I whispered.
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Before Julian could scream another denial, my mother—who had remained paralyzed in the front row—let out a choked sob and collapsed backward into her chair.
"She didn't just plan to steal the empire, Alessandro," my mother wept, her hands covering her face. "Julian and Isabella... they planned to kill you on your wedding night."
