Chapter 4 - Whispers in the Executive Wing
Damiano stood motionless in the center of the library, the world outside the rain-streaked windows fading into utter insignificance.
"She has a photograph," Damiano said slowly, testing the reality of the words.
"Yes. But it's a secret," Lucia whispered, putting a tiny finger to her lips. "If I tell, the bad men with the snake tattoos will find us. Mommy told me never to say the name Moretti."
Moretti.
The name hit Damiano like a hollow-point bullet straight to the sternum. Elena Moretti. The little girl on the stoop. The girl he had sworn on his father’s grave to protect before the world turned to fire and blood. She hadn't died in a fire. She had been running—for twenty years.
Before Damiano could ask another question, the library doors flew open.
Serena stood in the entryway, her hair disheveled, her face pale as parchment, wearing a faded cotton robe. Her eyes darted wildly across the room until they landed on Lucia sitting at Damiano’s feet. A silent, suffocating scream seemed to catch in her throat.
"Lucia!" Serena gasped, rushing across the room and pulling the girl behind her back. She dropped to her knees, looking up at Damiano with pure, unadulterated terror. "Please, Mr. Conti. Please don't hurt her. She’s only three. She doesn't know what she's doing. I will pack our things right now. We will be gone before sunrise."
Damiano looked down at her. In the harsh lamp light, he didn't see the meek housekeeper who wiped down his mahogany sideboards. He saw the fierce little girl who used to throw rocks at neighborhood bullies twice her size.
"Elena," Damiano said quietly.
Serena froze. The color drained from her face until she looked almost translucent. Her lips trembled, but no sound came out.
"Don't run anymore," Damiano said, his voice softer than any servant in that house had ever heard it. "I looked for you for five years."
"You shouldn't have," Serena—Elena—whispered, tears spilling over her lashes. "The people who killed my brother... they didn't stop with him, Damiano. They took everything. And when I found out I was pregnant four years ago, I realized they were still watching the registries. I had to bury Elena Moretti to keep Lucia alive."
"Who was watching?" Damiano took a step closer, the cold, lethal rage of a Don igniting behind his eyes. "Who told you I couldn't protect you?"
"Marco," Elena said, her voice shaking violently. "Marco came to the orphanage twenty years ago. He told me you were the one who ordered the hit on Leo. He gave me five thousand dollars and told me if I ever stepped foot in New York again, you would finish the job."
A deafening silence enveloped the room.
Damiano felt the foundations of his entire life shift and crack. Marco. His brother in blood. The man who had managed his security, his accounts, his inner circle for twelve years. Marco had orchestrated the exile of Leo’s sister—and for two decades, had kept Damiano in the dark.
From the hallway outside the library, a floorboard creaked.
May you like
Damiano’s head snapped toward the door. Through the gap in the mahogany panels, he caught the faint reflection of a silver pocket knife clipping back into its sheath.
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