Chapter 3 - The Cold War in the West Wing
The following morning, the sun broke over the Hudson River in sharp, brilliant slants of gold and ice.
In the west wing of the Moretti estate, Isabella Romano stood before her sprawling vanity mirror, slipping a diamond-encrusted bracelet over her slender wrist. Her reflection showed a woman accustomed to victory. She was young, wealthy, and the undisputed daughter of a powerful mafia don. Yet, beneath her polished exterior, a bitter venom was brewing.
The previous day's humiliation in the grand hallway still burned in her memory. A servant's brat had defied her, and Alessandro had stepped over her authority to shield a maid and her child.
A soft knock sounded at her door.
"Come in," Isabella called out, not turning around.
The door opened, and her personal maid, a young girl named Clara whom she had brought with her from Chicago, stepped inside carrying a steaming cup of espresso.
"Signora Romano," Clara murmured nervously. "Your coffee."
Isabella turned, taking the porcelain cup and taking a slow sip. Her pale eyes narrowed. "Did you find out what I asked about the back kitchen?"
Clara swallowed hard, casting a nervous glance toward the hallway. "Yes, Signora. The housekeeper... Rosa. She has lived in the estate quarters for four years. The child, Lily, is three. But... there are rumors among the kitchen staff."
"What kind of rumors?" Isabella demanded, her voice sharp.
"The older staff whisper that Don Moretti checks on the child every single morning during his rounds," Clara whispered, leaning in closer. "They say he looks at her the way a father looks at a daughter. And yesterday... when he defended them in the hallway? None of the guards had ever seen him lower himself like that for a servant."
Isabella's grip on the porcelain cup tightened until her knuckles turned white.
"A servant's bastard," Isabella hissed, setting the cup down so hard the liquid sloshed over the rim. "He humiliated me in front of the entire household for a kitchen maid's brat. He thinks he can bring a peasant child into my home and expect me to smile?"
"Signora, please," Clara pleaded. "Don Moretti is not a man to cross. Your father and he have a truce, but—"
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"My father owns half of Chicago," Isabella interrupted, her voice rising in cold fury. "And I am not going to play second fiddle to a woman who scrubs floors. If Alessandro wants to protect his little pets, I will give him something real to protect them from."
Without waiting for Clara to argue further, Isabella swept past her maid, the silk of her designer dress rustling against the Persian carpet as she marched out of the west wing and headed straight toward the grand staircase.
