Chapter 2 - The Red Coat
The morning light broke gray and cold over the East River. By 7:30 AM, Aleandro was sitting in the dining room of his townhouse on East 64th Street. The smell of fresh espresso and warm pastries filled the air—a domestic illusion that felt increasingly fragile.
Isabella descended the winding staircase wearing a soft cream knit dress, her dark hair pinned loosely up. She looked radiant, the very picture of a woman preparing for the grandest wedding New York high society had seen in a decade. She walked over to Aleandro, leaning down to press her lips against his cheek. They were warm, smelling faintly of honey and mint.
"You look tired," she said, sitting across from him and pouring herself a cup of green tea. Her hands were perfectly steady today. The trembling woman from the hidden camera footage seemed like a phantom.
"The docks are demanding more attention than usual," Aleandro said, folding his newspaper with deliberate precision. "The Colombo family is pushing the boundaries on the northern transit routes. I may have to schedule an emergency meeting with Enzo this afternoon."
At the mention of Enzo, Isabella’s fingers tightened slightly around the handle of her teacup. It was a micro-expression, lasting less than a millisecond, but Aleandro caught it. Enzo Moretti was Aleandro’s first cousin—a volatile, ambitious man who had always believed he should have inherited the family leadership after Aleandro’s father passed away.
"Enzo always brings so much tension with him," Isabella said, her voice smooth, almost dismissive. "Must you handle him before the weekend? The wedding is only four days away, Aleandro. I don't want your mind buried in family disputes when we stand at the altar."
"Family is the only reason we stand anywhere, Isabella," Aleandro replied, his dark eyes locking onto hers with an intensity that made her breath hitch. For a second, just a single second, the mask of the innocent bride slipped, revealing a deep, terrifying panic beneath her brown eyes. Then, it was gone.
"Of course," she murmured, lowering her gaze to her tea. "I just want everything to be perfect."
"It will be," Aleandro said, standing up from the table. "I’ve arranged for a special security detail to accompany you to your final dress fitting today. Marco's men. Just a precaution given the current climate with the Colombos."
Isabella looked up quickly, her voice rising a fraction of an octave. "That’s really not necessary, Aleandro. I’ll just be with my maid of honor and the designer. Having armed men outside the boutique will only cause a scene."
"In my world, a scene is better than a tragedy, my love," Aleandro smiled—the warm, empty smile that betrayed nothing. "They will stay outside. You won't even notice them."
As he walked out the heavy front door into the waiting armored sedan, Marco was already inside, a tablet glowing on his lap.
"We traced the call," Marco said without preamble as the car pulled away from the curb. "The burner phone she used routed through a cloned cell tower in Long Island City. But the destination wasn't Enzo, Aleandro. The call went directly to a landline inside the federal building on Plaza."
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Aleandro turned his head toward the window, watching the brownstones blur past. "An active federal handler. She isn't working for a rival family. She’s an asset for the Southern District."
"Worse," Marco handed him the tablet. "The registration on that specific internal line belongs to Special Agent Christopher Vance. The head of the Organized Crime Strike Force. They aren't trying to start a war, Aleandro. They’re building a racketeering case designed to take down the entire Moretti infrastructure in one sweep. And your bride-to-be is the one holding the pen."
