Chapter 3 - The Whispering Gallery
Elena’s face drained of all color. She instantly realized what had happened. With a fast, protective motion, she grabbed the black-and-gold pendant, tucked it back beneath her white collar, and buttoned her dress with trembling fingers.
She did not look Lorenzo directly in the eyes. Instead, her dark eyes darted nervously upward toward the high corners of the marble hall, where two black surveillance camera domes gleamed beneath the crystal chandeliers.
She leaned in slightly, keeping her voice so quiet that only Lorenzo could hear her.
"Not here," Elena whispered, her voice laced with deep, genuine terror.
Lorenzo’s dark eyes narrowed instantly. He realized in a fraction of a second that she was not afraid of him, nor was she afraid of being caught with the heirloom. She was terrified of whoever was watching them through the estate's private security network.
Lorenzo stood up smoothly, his expression instantly locking back into an unreadable, lethal mask.
"Marco," Lorenzo called out coldly.
Marco DeLuca—Lorenzo’s forty-three-year-old security chief—stepped out from the adjacent security hub. Built like a fortress in a fitted black suit, dark tie, and clear earpiece, Marco moved with disciplined speed, his sharp eyes taking in the entire room.
"Clear the hall," Lorenzo commanded. "Take the staff to their quarters. And bring Elena and her daughter to the private guest wing on the third floor. Nobody touches them."
Renata Bellini stood frozen on the staircase, clutching the jeweled clock against her emerald dress, her knuckles white as she watched Marco escort Elena and Sophia away under armed guard.
Late that night, the mansion was shrouded in heavy silence. A storm raged outside, rain beating hard against the stained-glass windows of Lorenzo’s private study.
Inside the dimly lit room, Lorenzo stood behind his massive mahogany desk, his black suit jacket removed, his white dress shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows, revealing the dark ink lining his forearms.
Marco DeLuca stepped up to the desk, placing a thick leather file labeled CONFIDENTIAL BACKGROUND REPORT onto the polished wood. Beside the file, Marco laid down the black-and-gold pendant that Lorenzo had ordered secured from Elena’s room.
Then, Marco placed a faded, thirty-year-old photograph beside the golden crest.
Lorenzo leaned over the desk, staring down at the photograph.
The picture showed a much younger Lorenzo as a boy, standing beside his father, Don Vito Duca, on the terrace of the original family estate fifteen years earlier—just days before the violent massacre that had destroyed the entire bloodline and left Lorenzo as the sole survivor.
Standing right behind Don Vito in the photograph was a sixteen-year-old girl with dark-brown hair and watchful eyes, wearing a simple silver chain around her neck.
It was Elena.
Lorenzo’s breath caught in his throat. "She was there..." he whispered softly. "She was in the house the night my father died."
"She isn't just a housemaid, Boss," Marco said in a low, serious tone. "She is the missing daughter of your father's personal advisor. She is the last living witness to the massacre."
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Lorenzo slowly raised his eyes from the photograph, looking toward the heavy mahogany door of his private study.
Outside in the dark, unlit hallway, standing silently against the wall near the crack of the door, was Renata Bellini, her pearl earrings catching the faint red glow of an encrypted recording device hidden inside her gloved hand.
