Chapter 2 - The Archive of Cruelty
The master study was soundproofed behind three inches of reinforced mahogany and lead-lined insulation. Inside, the only light came from the gray autumn rain lashing the arched bay windows and the cold blue glow of Vittorio’s triple-monitor workstation.
Lucy lay curled on the deep leather sofa, swaddled in a cashmere throw, clutching a warm mug of chamomile tea that Emma had personally prepared under the watchful eye of a kitchen guard. Her breathing had leveled into the heavy, ragged sleep of an emotionally battered child.
Vittorio stood behind his desk, having stripped off his suit coat and rolled his white linen sleeves to his elbows, revealing the intricate dark ink tracing his forearms—scars and marks of a life forged in blood long before he wore bespoke Italian wool.
Emma stood on the opposite side of the desk. In front of her lay not just the cracked phone, but a black external hard drive she had retrieved from a hollowed-out baseboard in the third-floor laundry closet.
“Plug it in,” Vittorio said.
Emma’s hands shook as she connected the drive to the central console. “I… I tried to tell Mr. Moretti three weeks ago, sir. When you were in London.”
Vittorio’s jaw set like iron. Marco Moretti was his long-standing chief of domestic operations, the man trusted to oversee the estate’s security and internal logistics. “And what did Marco say?”
“He said that Miss Bianca was under immense stress planning the wedding,” Emma whispered, looking down at the plush Persian carpet. “He told me that if I started rumors about the future lady of the house, I’d find myself back on the street without a reference. He… he threatened to tell the police I had stolen silverware.”
Vittorio’s expression didn't shift, but the ambient temperature in the room seemed to plummet ten degrees. He clicked open the primary folder on the hard drive.
What appeared on the high-definition displays was not a collection of sporadic outbursts; it was an organized, systematic campaign of psychological and physical degradation.
Dozens of video clips, precisely cataloged by date and time:
July 14, 2:15 PM: Bianca locking Lucy in the dark pantry for ninety minutes because the four-year-old had accidentally smudged chocolate frosting on a guest bathroom towel.
August 02, 7:30 AM: Marcus Hale sitting at the kitchen island, laughing while Bianca threw Lucy’s favorite stuffed bear into the courtyard incinerator, telling the sobbing girl that "useless orphans don't get toys."
September 19, 6:00 PM: A hidden audio file capturing Bianca on a speakerphone call.
Vittorio tapped the audio file. A cold, nasal voice filled the study—Bianca’s mother, Eleanor Ashcroft, speaking with casual aristocrat venom.
“...just keep the little bastard isolated, Bianca. Once the marriage certificate is filed and Arthur secures the trust amendments, Vittorio will have to adopt your children as his sole legal heirs. That brat from his first marriage will be shipped off to a Swiss boarding facility before the year is out. Just make sure Vittorio thinks she’s emotionally unstable. Make her look unhinged. If she acts like a feral animal, he won't question putting her away.”
Vittorio did not move a single muscle while the recording played to its conclusion. His hand rested flat on the edge of the mahogany desk, the wood creaking softly under the terrifying pressure of his grip.
He had brought Bianca into his house because she represented old Midwestern political lineage. Her grandfather was a federal judge; her uncle sat on the state supreme court. After the death of his wife Elena four years ago, Vittorio had convinced himself that Lucy needed a mother with social standing, someone who could shield his daughter from the bloody stigma of his surname.
Instead, he had invited a pack of hyenas into the nursery.
“Emma,” Vittorio said, his voice terrifyingly calm.
“Yes, Mr. Rossi?”
“From this second onward, your salary is multiplied by five. You will answer directly to me and no one else. If anyone in this house—guards, staff, or family—attempts to question you, you tell them they can speak to my gun.”
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Emma let out a ragged breath, tears slipping down her cheeks. “I just wanted her to be safe, sir. She’s only a baby.”
“She is a Rossi,” Vittorio replied, his eyes drifting to the sleeping child on the sofa. “And those who tried to break her are about to learn what that name actually means.”
