Chapter 2 - THE SHADOWS IN THE KITCHEN
The revelation hit me with the force of a physical blow.
For weeks, Aldo Manfredi had been visiting my private study under the guise of reviewing ledger updates, often bringing my afternoon tea or evening broth with his own hands. He didn't need to force a coup; he was simply turning off my nervous system drop by drop, waiting for the coroner to sign off on a convenient, natural death certificate.
I looked down at five-year-old Giulia, who was staring up at me with an expression of profound, quiet empathy.
“Does your mother know you brought this to me?” I asked, my voice tightening with a fierce, protective urgency.
Giulia shook her head slowly, her red scarf shifting around her shoulders. “Mama doesn't know. She was cleaning the library. She was crying because Mr. Aldo told her if she didn't keep her mouth shut about the extra packages in the pantry, he would make sure we never saw our apartment again.”
A cold, lethal fury surged through my veins, temporarily burning away the numbness in my limbs. The lion wasn't dead yet. And the jackals were about to find out what happened when they cornered a wounded beast.
“Listen to me very carefully, little one,” I said, leaning forward, my voice dropping into the gravelly register that had once made hardened syndicate bosses tremble. “You are going to walk back down to the kitchen, find your mother, and tell her to pack her bag. Tell her to meet me at the side terrace door in exactly twenty minutes. Do you understand?”
Giulia blinked, her solemn eyes reflecting a maturity far beyond her five years. She nodded once. “Are you going to make the bad men go away?”
“I’m going to end them,” I replied softly.
She turned and slipped out of the room as silently as she had entered.
I didn't press the panic button for my regular guards—half of them were on Aldo’s payroll anyway, bought off with promises of higher positions in the new regime. Instead, I reached into the hidden compartment beneath my nightstand and pulled out my heavy, diamond-checkered secure satellite phone—a device Aldo didn't even know existed, wired directly to my old loyalist strike team stationed thirty miles outside the city limits.
I punched in a speed-dial code.
“Vance,” I barked into the receiver as soon as the line connected.
“Boss?” Vance’s voice came back instantly, sharp and disbelieving. “They told us you were incapacitated. They said you couldn't speak.”
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“They lied,” I said, my voice dripping with ice. “Bring the heavy unit to the eastern gates. Lock down every perimeter exit. No one leaves this estate tonight. And bring Dr. Moretti with you—I need a blood panel run immediately.”
“Consider it done, Boss,” Vance growled. “We’re rolling.”
