Chapter 3 - The Shadows of the Past
The interrogation did not happen in the dining room. At Alessandro’s quiet nod, one of the massive bodyguards—a man named Viktor—had gently but immovably escorted Sophie into Laurent’s private office at the back of the restaurant.
It was a cramped, windowless room filled with wine invoices, boxes of imported napkins, and the faint smell of floor wax.
The heavy oak door creaked shut, leaving Sophie standing alone behind the scarred wooden desk. A moment later, the lock clicked. Alessandro Moretti stepped into the room, closing the door behind him. He looked entirely too large for the space. He did not sit down; instead, he leaned against the closed door, blocking any exit, his arms crossed over his bespoke chest.
"You're shaking again," Alessandro noted, his tone devoid of mockery, observing her with clinical detachment. "And it isn't from hunger anymore. It's fear. Why?"
"You're a Moretti," Sophie said, her back pressed against the edge of the desk. "People disappear for looking at your shoes the wrong way in this city."
"Some people do," Alessandro agreed smoothly. "People who steal, people who lie, people who cross my family. But you didn't steal anything. You humiliated my date, corrected my wine choice, and displayed a pedigree you've been hiding under a cheap polyester uniform. Why is a woman with a Sorbonne education hiding out in a French restaurant in Manhattan?"
Sophie flinched. The word Sorbonne hung in the air like a physical blow.
"You checked my file that quickly?" she asked bitterly.
"Laurent keeps employee records on a tablet synced to the cloud. My men can access anything in New York within thirty seconds," Alessandro replied casually. He pushed off the door and took two steps closer, closing the distance between them. "I saw your transcripts. French literature, European history, high honors. Then your file drops off a cliff four years ago. No graduation record. No tax filings under your name until six months ago when you popped up in Queens under an alias. Or rather, a partial name. You dropped your father’s last name, didn't you? Or did your father drop you?"
Sophie’s breath hitched. The ghost of her father, Julian Dubois, flashed behind her eyelids—a man who drank expensive burgundy while the repo men hammered on their apartment door in Paris, a man who fled to America with stolen diplomatic credentials before vanishing into the criminal underbelly of the tristate area.
"My father is dead," Sophie lied, her voice dropping an octave.
"Your father is Julian Dubois," Alessandro corrected softly, his eyes narrowing. "A man who brokered illegal art antiquities and counterfeit wine rings across Europe before the French authorities seized his assets. He owed a very large sum of money to people who weren't as patient as bankers. People like my uncle, Victor Moretti."
The blood drained entirely from Sophie’s face. The room seemed to tilt sideways.
"You didn't just wander into L’Étoile Noir by accident, did you, Sophie?" Alessandro continued, his voice dropping into a register that sent a shiver straight down her spine. "Or did you know my family frequented this establishment? Were you hunting us?"
"No!" Sophie gasped, pressing her hands flat against the desk behind her. "I swear to God, I didn't know! I needed a job anywhere that paid cash off the books because my papers are tangled up! I didn't know you would be here tonight!"
Alessandro stared at her for a long, agonizing moment. He reached out, his long fingers stopping an inch from her face before gently tucking a stray lock of blonde hair behind her ear, the exact motion she had performed earlier. His touch was burning hot.
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"I don't believe in coincidences, Sophie," Alessandro whispered. "In my world, coincidences are just poorly planned conspiracies. But I am willing to be convinced. Especially since my uncle Victor has been looking for Julian Dubois’s missing ledger for the past five years—a ledger containing the names of every corrupt politician, judge, and mob boss in New York and Paris."
Sophie’s eyes widened in sudden, stark terror. The ledger. Her father had left it to her before he disappeared. And she knew exactly where it was hidden.
