Chapter 4 - the silent gallery
The news hit Rico like a cold blade. He stood in the quiet hallway outside the nursery, his hands clenching into fists as he stared at the digital files on Dante's tablet.
"Did she know who I was when she took the job at Il Destino?" Rico asked, his voice chillingly calm.
"Our sources say no," Dante reported smoothly. "She was hired through a standard employment agency. But someone paid off the agency manager to place her on your private VIP floor."
"Keep two men posted outside her door," Rico ordered coldly. "Do not let her leave the second floor until I verify who wiped her records."
Inside the nursery, Clara stood near the window, looking out at the foggy harbor. She could feel the sudden shift in the house's energy—the quiet rustle of guards moving into position down the hall.
She turned away from the window and walked toward the far corner of the second-floor wing. The door to the adjoining room stood slightly ajar, a soft golden light spilling out onto the carpet.
Driven by quiet curiosity, Clara pushed the door open and stepped inside.
It was an art studio. Canvas frames were stacked against the walls, smells of oil paint and turpentine lingering in the air. Covered by a white linen sheet in the center of the room was a massive canvas resting on an easel.
Clara walked up to the easel and gently pulled back the linen sheet.
Her breath caught in her throat.
It was a magnificent oil portrait of two young women sitting together on a sunlit balcony overlooking the coast of Italy. One was Isabella Moretti... and sitting right beside her, laughing happily, was Clara's late sister, Sarah.
Both women were wearing matching silver lockets around their necks.
"You shouldn't be in here," a deep, commanding voice growled from the doorway.
Clara spun around. Rico stood in the threshold, his broad frame framed by the dark hall, his eyes burning with intense, dangerous focus.
"Rico... I'm sorry, I didn't mean to pry," Clara gasped, backing against the easel. "I just... I saw my sister's face."
Rico walked into the studio, stopping two feet from her, his presence suffocatingly close. He reached out and pointed to the bottom corner of the painting, where a small inscription was written in red paint: To my sister Sarah, until we meet in Palermo — Isabella.
"They weren't just friends, Clara," Rico whispered, his deep voice thick with a dark, unspoken truth. "Your sister Sarah didn't die of illness six years ago. She was murdered by the Valenti family because she discovered a mole inside my organization."
Clara stared at him, tears welling in her soft brown eyes as the terrible weight of her sister's secret finally broke over her. "Sarah... was killed?"
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"And six months ago," Rico continued, taking a step closer, his hand reaching out to gently touch the silver locket resting against Clara's neck, "my wife Isabella died in a car explosion because she was trying to finish what your sister started."
Clara looked into Rico's intense dark eyes, realizing in that terrifying, beautiful moment that her life and his had been bound together by blood and tragedy long before they ever met at Il Destino.
