Chapter 2 - The Red Room in Old Westbury
The drive back to Long Island took forty-five minutes, but inside the rear compartment of the Maybach, it felt like an eternity suspended in liquid nitrogen.
Franco sat in the front passenger seat, his eyes watching the rearview mirror.
"The guards at the main gate reported that Miss Sofia arrived two hours ago," Franco said, his rough, raspy voice breaking the quiet hum of the engine. "She brought three dressmakers from Milan and her wedding coordinator. They are in the grand ballroom setting up the floral displays for tomorrow's reception."
I stared out the rain-streaked window at the dark trees lining the Northern State Parkway. "Where is her father?"
"Senator Vance is in the library," Franco replied smoothly. "He brought two of his legal advisors. They brought the final draft of the pre-nuptial corporate merger agreements for Vale Meridian Industries."
"Good," I murmured. "Let them set the table."
I reached inside my coat and pulled out the white envelope from the genetics lab in Manhattan.
Probability of Paternity: 0.00%.
Fetal tissue analysis indicates paternal genetic markers matching Julian Vance, Jr.
Julian Vance, Jr. Sofia's cousin. The thirty-two-year-old playboy who spent his time racing yachts in Monaco and sitting on the executive board of his father's pharmaceutical company—a company that relied heavily on my shipping lines to move its unrefined chemical precursors through the Port of Newark without federal inspection.
They hadn't just cheated on me.
They had planned a long-term corporate takeover. Sofia marries the head of the Moretti family. She produces a male heir. In five years, an 'accident' happens to Alessandro Moretti on one of his boats or during an overseas shipment. The Moretti estate, the shipping networks, and the private banking channels in Switzerland pass directly to Sofia and her 'Moretti' child—which would actually be a Vance.
It was brilliant. It was clean.
And it was completely dead the moment a lab technician in Queens ran a routine amniocentesis sample through a secondary sequencer.
The Maybach pulled through the iron gates of the estate, the tires crunching over the wet gravel driveway. The main house looked like an English castle transported to Long Island—stone turrets, slate roofs, and grand arched windows blazing with light against the dark night sky.
As I stepped into the grand foyer, the air smelled of white lilies, expensive perfume, and warm champagne.
"Alessandro!"
Sofia came down the grand double staircase like a vision from a fashion magazine. She was tall, slender, with platinum blond hair styled in soft waves and green eyes that had captivated the New York society pages for two years. She wore a silk gown, and her left hand carried the twelve-carat emerald-cut diamond ring I had placed on her finger six months ago.
"Where have you been?" she laughed, reaching the bottom step and throwing her arms around my neck. "The florists are panicking because you weren't here to approve the white orchid arrangements for the altar. And my father wants to review the harbor lease agreements before dinner."
I stood entirely still inside her embrace. I didn't raise my arms. I didn't touch her back.
Sofia pulled away slightly, her smile faltering as she looked into my face. "Alessandro? What's wrong? You look pale."
"Where is the baby's room?" I asked. My voice was entirely flat.
Sofia blinked, a brief, nervous flicker crossing her green eyes before she smoothed it over with a light laugh. "The nursery? It's upstairs, darling. You know that. You spent three weekends hand-painting the trim."
"Let's go look at it," I said, taking her elbow. My grip wasn't violent, but it was absolute—like an iron clamp wrapped in velvet.
"Alessandro, my father is waiting in the library..."
"He can wait," I said, leading her toward the secondary stairs that led to the private residential wing.
The third-floor corridor was silent. At the end of the hall stood a heavy white oak door, decorated with a hand-carved wooden sign bearing the name we had chosen three months ago: Clara Moretti.
I unlocked the door and pushed it open.
The room smelled of fresh paint, cedar, and baby powder. A hand-carved white crib stood near the bay window, overlooking the gardens. On the shelves were stuffed bears, miniature silver rattles, and three pairs of small leather shoes I had bought in Florence during my last business trip.
Sofia walked into the center of the room, turning around with her arms spread. "It's perfect, Alessandro. Everyone at the shower said it was the most beautiful nursery in New York. Our daughter is going to be..."
"It isn't our daughter," I said, standing in the doorway, my body blocking the exit.
Sofia froze. Her hands dropped slowly to her sides. "What are you talking about?"
I took the white envelope from my coat pocket and threw it onto the polished mahogany surface of the changing table.
"Page three," I said softly. "The sequence analysis from Columbia Presbyterian."
Sofia stared at the white envelope as if it were a venomous snake coiled on the table. "Alessandro... you promised you wouldn't run secondary blood tests without my consent. The doctor said the routine screening was sufficient..."
"Read the paper, Sofia."
Her hands trembled as she pulled the sheets from the envelope. Her eyes scanned the technical jargon, the percentage columns, until they hit the bottom line.
Paternal Match: Julian Vance, Jr.
The silence in the nursery was so complete I could hear the rain beginning to patter against the high bay window.
"Alessandro," she whispered, her face draining of all color, leaving her red lipstick looking like a streak of fresh blood against porcelain. "It... it was a mistake. One night in the Hamptons. Last summer when you were in Milan for six weeks. I was lonely... I was drunk..."
"One night?" I asked, taking one step into the room. "And Julian Vance, Jr. just happened to be the father? The same Julian who signed the joint venture contract for the Newark terminal four days after you told me you were pregnant?"
"It doesn't change anything!" she cried, dropping the paper and stepping toward me, her hands reaching for my lapels. "I love you, Alessandro! The baby... she will be a Moretti! No one ever has to know! We can burn this paper right now! My father's influence in Washington can secure the federal shipping exemptions you've been wanting for three years!"
I looked down at her hands on my chest.
The same chest where a six-year-old girl in a yellow sweater had rested her cheek three hours ago.
"You brought a bastard child into my father's house," I said, my voice dropping into a low, terrifying whisper that made Sofia stumble back two steps. "You built a castle out of lies, and you thought because I loved this baby, I would be too soft to see the blade behind your back."
"Alessandro, please!" she sobbed, dropping to her knees on the white wool rug, her silk dress spreading out around her like a pool of spilled milk. "Don't do this! Think of the reputation of both our families! The wedding is tomorrow! Four hundred guests are arriving at noon!"
"The wedding is happening," I said, looking down at her weeping form with absolute, unyielding coldness. "Every guest will sit in their assigned seat. Senator Vance will take his place on the altar. The press will have their cameras ready."
Sofia looked up, a sudden flicker of desperate hope in her tear-streaked eyes. "You... you're going to go through with it?"
"Oh, yes," I smiled, a dark, terrible expression that contained no warmth at all. "You are going to wear your white dress, Sofia. But when you walk down that aisle tomorrow, you aren't going to find a groom waiting for you. You're going to find a federal indictment."
I turned my back on her, stepping into the corridor.
"Franco!" I called down the hallway.
Franco appeared instantly from the stairwell. "Boss?"
"Lock Miss Sofia in this room," I ordered, staring at the white oak door. "Take her phone. Take her jewelry. Put four guards outside the door. If Senator Vance tries to step onto the elevator, put him in the cellar until morning."
"Understood," Franco said, pulling his radio from his belt. "And the wedding decorations?"
May you like
I looked back at the hand-carved crib inside the nursery—the tiny leather shoes, the soft bears, the dream I had built for six months on a bed of sand.
"Leave them," I said quietly. "Tomorrow, we give the city of New York something to remember for the next fifty years."
