Chapter 3 - The Scent in the Study
The silence in the master study was suffocating.
Alessandro stood by the tall, rain-streaked French doors overlooking the rear gardens, where the colored string lights of the birthday pavilion swayed in the howling wind. In his right hand, he held a glass of mineral water, his knuckles white against the crystal.
A soft knock sounded at the door.
Sophia Carter entered, holding three-year-old Lily by the hand. Lily had been washed, her curly hair neatly brushed back with a fresh blue ribbon, wearing clean cotton pajamas and holding a plush stuffed bear Ethan had given her from his toy trunk.
"Mr. Moretti," Sophia said softly, her voice filled with quiet, protective deference. "Ethan is asleep in his room. Mateo gave him a mild antihistamine just in case, and two of your men are sitting outside his door."
Alessandro turned around, his stern, terrifying facade softening as he looked down at the little girl.
He walked over, kneeling on the Persian rug in front of Lily, bringing himself down to her level.
"Lily," Alessandro said gently. "You were very brave downstairs."
Lily looked at him with wide, innocent brown eyes, clutching her bear to her chest. "The man had a shiny clock on his arm, Mr. Alessandro. It went tick-tick."
"What did the man do, sweetheart?" Alessandro asked.
"He opened the silver box, and he put white sugar on Ethan’s cake," Lily whispered. "Then he hid the box in the lady’s pretty blue purse on the table."
Sophia gasped, her hand flying to her mouth. "The blue purse... Miss Francesca's purse."
Alessandro slowly stood up to his full height. The pieces of the puzzle began to interlock with terrifying, geometric clarity.
Dante hadn't simply tried to poison Ethan.
He had deliberately planted the toxin container in Francesca’s clutch, framing Alessandro’s young fiancée for the assassination of his son. If Ethan had died, Francesca would have been found with the silver box in her bag. Alessandro would have executed her and her family in blind, catastrophic vengeance, triggering an all-out civil war between the Moretti syndicate and the Manhattan construction unions—leaving Dante to step into the ashes as the sole, untainted heir to the entire empire.
The heavy walnut study door opened with a firm push.
Dante Moretti strode into the room, wearing a tailored navy suit with an open-collared white shirt. His dark hair was brushed back, his handsome, thirty-five-year-old face showing a practiced expression of fierce, loyal fury.
"Alessandro," Dante said, stepping across the threshold. "Marco told me what happened with the cake. I’ve put thirty men on the perimeter. If anyone in this house tried to touch my godson, I will personally throw them off the North Pier before midnight."
Alessandro looked at his brother's left wrist.
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Dante was wearing a plain, black leather-strapped Cartier.
The rose-gold Audemars Piguet was gone.
