Chapter 2 - Shadows in the Marble
The basement interrogation room under the east wing didn’t look like a dungeon.
It looked like an expensive wine cellar, lined with mahogany shelves, heavy iron vintage locks, and soft amber lighting.
Except there were no windows.
And the chair in the center was bolted firmly to the stone floor.
I sat there with my hands tucked tightly between my knees, trying to keep them from visibly shaking.
Lily was upstairs, locked in my quarters on the third floor, under the watch of a young housemaid named Rosa whom I prayed I could trust.
The heavy oak door swung open with a muffled click.
Matteo walked in.
He didn’t bring guards.
He didn’t bring weapons that I could see, but a man like him didn’t need a physical blade to look lethal.
He pulled up a heavy wooden chair, placed it directly opposite me, and sat down with agonizing calm.
He adjusted the silver cufflinks on his dark gray suit.
“You have five minutes to convince me not to let my lieutenants handle this, Elena,” he said smoothly. His voice was low, like smooth leather scraped over granite.
“I didn't take the drive,” I whispered, my voice raspy from hours of held-back tears. “I don't even know what was on it.”
“It contained shipment codes for our northern distribution,” Matteo replied, his dark eyes searching my face without a trace of mercy. “Information that left three of my men dead near Milan’s docks four hours ago.”
My heart stopped.
Dead men meant retribution.
In his world, blood demanded blood.
“And the bank account?” he pressed, leaning forward. “Two hundred thousand euros transferred from an offshore shell account into Julian’s dormant account. Your husband.”
“Julian was a mechanic!” I blurted out, tears finally breaking free. “He didn't know anything about crime or shipping routes! He worked fourteen hours a day fixing broken clutches and rusted engines! When he died, he left me with twelve thousand euros in debt, not two hundred thousand in savings!”
Matteo stared at me.
Silence stretched between us, thick and suffused with tension.
He reached into his inner jacket pocket.
I flinched involuntarily, squeezing my eyes shut, expecting steel.
Instead, I heard the soft click of a fountain pen.
He tossed a folder onto the small table between us.
Inside were high-resolution photographs taken from security footage.
One showed a figure wearing a housemaid’s dark apron entering his private study at 1:45 AM.
The face was obscured by the low tilt of a white cap.
The second photo was a close-up of the USB drive placed next to a glass of water.
“Look closely at the second photo, Elena,” Matteo said quietly.
I wiped my eyes and leaned over the paper.
The glass on the desk had a faint lipstick ring on its rim.
A deep, velvet crimson color.
The maids in the Moretti mansion were strictly forbidden from wearing makeup during working shifts.
Only one woman in the house wore that signature dark crimson shade.
Bianca.
“Bianca put it there,” I gasped, looking up into his eyes. “She framed me because you humiliated her in the hall! Because you made her apologize to a servant!”
“Bianca is arrogant,” Matteo said, his expression darkening. “She is vain. But she is not clever enough to access my personal bank routing numbers to send money to your husband's old account. She doesn't have those clearance codes.”
I blinked, confused. “Then who...?”
“Someone gave her the codes,” Matteo murmured, his gaze dropping to the floor as if solving a puzzle in real time. “Someone who wanted both you gone and Bianca discredited. Someone playing a much larger game inside these walls.”
Before I could process his words, the heavy door opened again.
It was Marco.
Marco was Matteo’s right-hand man, his childhood friend, and the chief of security for the entire estate.
He was a tall, stoic man with a faded scar running from his ear down to his collarbone.
He looked at me with cold disgust before turning to Matteo.
“Don Boss,” Marco said, his tone perfectly respectful. “The council of capos is waiting upstairs. They know about the ambush at the docks. They want the maid delivered to them. They want an example set.”
Matteo didn't move.
He remained seated, his eyes fixed on me.
“The evidence is absolute, Don Matteo,” Marco added softly, stepping closer. “Her husband’s name is tied to the money. Her prints are on the drive. If you protect a traitor’s widow, the families will think you are weak. They will think this little girl has softened your judgment.”
There it was.
The subtle needle.
The gentle push toward my execution.
I looked at Marco’s face.
His expression was smooth, almost sympathetic, but his eyes were entirely dead.
And in that fleeting second, I noticed something else.
On the cuff of Marco’s right sleeve was a microscopic trace of deep red wax—the exact same wax seal used on Bianca’s private stationery letters.
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They weren't enemies.
The arrogant fiancée and the loyal right-hand man were working together.
