Chapter 2 - The Dropped Roses
The white roses lay scattered across the polished hardwood floor outside the doorway, their crushed petals smearing pale green and ivory against the dark mahogany.
Lorenzo Moretti didn't look at the flowers. He didn't look at the wet rug or the shattered porcelain teacup.
His dark, lethal gaze was locked entirely on Valentina Ricci.
“Lorenzo...” Valentina’s voice lost its razor-sharp edge, transforming instantly into a soft, trembling purr. She took a swift step back from where I knelt on the floor, her silk skirt rustling sharply. “Lorenzo, thank God you’re home. The maid... she became utterly hysterical. She dropped my tea, smashed the crystal pitcher, and when I tried to calm her down, she started shouting wild accusations about my family.”
Lorenzo walked into the room.
His boots made a quiet, heavy thud against the soaked rug. Standing at six-foot-four, his presence swallowed the space, radiating a cold, dangerous pressure that made the air feel thick and hard to breathe.
He ignored Valentina completely.
He stopped directly in front of me, dropping to one knee on the wet rug. He didn't care about the cold jasmine tea soaking into his tailored wool trousers.
Six-year-old Lena was clinging to his waist, her small arms wrapped fiercely around his ribs, her dark curls damp from the rain outside. She was sobbing into his jacket.
“Sophia,” Lorenzo said, his voice dropping into a low, gravelly register that made my heart hammer against my ribs. “Look at me.”
I raised my eyes, my damp hair clinging to my face, my right wrist throbbing where Valentina had bruised it.
Lorenzo saw the dark red marks left by Valentina’s manicured fingers on my skin. His jaw clenched so tight a hard muscle twitched beneath his cheekbone.
“Did she lay a hand on you?” Lorenzo asked softly.
“Lorenzo!” Valentina gasped, her voice rising in outraged disbelief. “You are kneeling in front of a servant! She listened to my private phone calls! She’s trying to sabotage our wedding!”
Lorenzo reached out. His large, warm hand cupped my jaw, his thumb gently wiping away a mix of rainwater and tea from my cheek. His touch was surprisingly tender for a man who commanded Chicago’s most ruthless crime syndicate.
“Lena ran down the long driveway in the pouring rain, Sophia,” Lorenzo murmured, staring directly into my eyes. “She threw herself in front of my car. She was screaming that the pretty lady was going to make her mommy vanish.”
My breath caught in my throat. I pulled Lena into my lap, wrapping my arms around my daughter, burying my face in her wet hair. “Lena... oh baby, you ran outside?”
“She said you wouldn't come home, Mommy,” Lena whimpered, her tiny shoulders shaking against my chest. “The man in the big suit helped me, but I was scared.”
Lorenzo stood up slowly.
The warmth in his face vanished, replaced by the terrifying, unyielding mask of the Moretti patriarch. He turned to face his fiancée.
Valentina stepped back until her spine hit the mahogany bookcase. “Lorenzo, listen to me. She’s lying. Whatever she told you—”
“She hasn't said a word to me yet, Valentina,” Lorenzo said, his voice flat, neutral, and chillingly precise. “You’re the one panicking.”
Valentina bit her lip, her chest heaving beneath her silk dress.
Lorenzo reached down toward my hand. “What are you holding, Sophia?”
My left hand was still clenched tight into a white-knuckled fist. I slowly opened my fingers.
May you like
Lying in the center of my palm was the small, antique bronze key, its surface tarnished with age, a thin loop of pale white thread tied neatly through its decorative bow.
The moment Valentina saw the key, the absolute last trace of color drained from her face.
