Chapter 2 - THE EAST PERIMETER
The crystal chandeliers above the dining table seemed to hum in the suffocating silence.
Twenty wealthy guests sat frozen in their velvet-backed chairs, their expensive champagne warming in their glasses. Nobody moved. Nobody dared to breathe. In the Bellini household, secrets were currency, and eighty-year-old Martha had just dropped a fortune onto the table.
“Mr. Lorenzo,” Martha repeated, her frail voice trembling but carrying an undeniable weight. “Those cottages are the reason your mother made me promise never to let anyone sell that garden.”
At the head of the table, Lorenzo Bellini did not shout. He didn’t flip his plate or strike the mahogany wood. As the head of a syndicate that was trying desperately to legitimize its operations, his anger was always icy, calculated, and terrifyingly quiet.
He slowly looked down at the demolition blueprints Bianca had tried to hide beneath the landscaping orders.
“Bianca,” Lorenzo said. His voice was a low, dangerous rumble that sent a shiver down my spine. “Why is there a private access road drawn through the retirees’ cottages? And why does it lead directly to the east perimeter?”
Bianca’s flawless, porcelain skin turned the color of ash. She stood at the opposite end of the table, her stunning red evening gown suddenly looking more like a target than a fashion statement.
“Lorenzo, darling, the architects drew that,” Bianca stammered, her dark eyes darting frantically toward the wealthy guests, desperately seeking an ally. “They said we needed an emergency access route for the catering trucks. It’s purely logistical. The cottages are old, dilapidated shacks anyway. The people living there can be moved to a nice facility.”
I tightened my grip on Martha’s arm. The cottages weren’t just houses. They were sanctuaries for the men and women who had dedicated their entire lives to serving the Bellini family. To bulldoze them was a betrayal of the highest order.
“A logistical route,” Lorenzo repeated softly.
He reached into the breast pocket of his tailored suit, pulled out his phone, and dialed a number. He placed it on the table and hit the speaker button. The dial tone echoed in the cavernous room.
“Lorenzo, please,” Bianca hissed, taking a step forward. “You’re embarrassing me in front of our guests!”
“Sit down,” Lorenzo commanded. He didn’t raise his voice, but the absolute authority in his tone made Bianca freeze, her knees buckling slightly as she sank back into her chair.
The phone clicked. A gruff voice answered. “Mr. Bellini? It’s Russo. Is everything okay with the site prep for tomorrow?”
“Russo,” Lorenzo said smoothly. “I’m looking at the blueprints for the wedding terrace. Who authorized the private road to the east perimeter?”
There was a heavy pause on the line. “Your fiancée, sir. Miss Bellini. She was very specific. She handed me the blueprints herself on Tuesday and paid the cash bonus to expedite the demolition of the six cottages.”
Answer One. The road wasn’t an architect’s mistake. Bianca had actively, secretly orchestrated it, paying cash to hide the paper trail.
“Thank you, Russo,” Lorenzo said. “Cancel all demolition. Do not bring a single machine onto my property tomorrow. If I see a bulldozer, I will burn it to the ground with you inside it.”
He ended the call without waiting for a reply.
Open Two. If Bianca wanted that road so desperately, what was she planning to bring into the estate? Or more importantly, who was she planning to let out?
Aunt Eleanor, Lorenzo’s sixty-year-old aunt who had sat quietly through the dinner, suddenly dropped her silver fork. It clattered loudly against her china plate.
“The east perimeter,” Eleanor whispered, her face draining of color. She looked at Lorenzo with wide, terrified eyes. “Lorenzo, the east perimeter borders the old Marino estate. You can’t open a road there. You promised your father you would keep that wall sealed.”
The Marino family. The name hung in the air like poison. They were the Bellinis’ oldest, bloodiest rivals. A decade of peace had only been achieved by building a massive stone wall between their properties, separating the two empires.
“I am building a wedding terrace, Eleanor, not a war zone!” Bianca shouted, tears of frustration spilling over her mascara. “I was trying to optimize the property value! Lorenzo, you are acting like a paranoid mobster! You promised me you were leaving that life behind!”
Reversal.
For a second, Lorenzo hesitated. I saw the conflict in his dark eyes. He had spent the last five years trying to wash the blood from his family’s name. He desperately wanted to be a legitimate businessman. Bianca was supposed to be his fresh start—a beautiful, high-society woman with no ties to the underworld. Was it possible she was just an arrogant, out-of-touch socialite who didn’t understand the geography of mafia borders?
“She’s lying, Daddy.”
Everyone at the table turned toward the dining room doors.
Standing there in his blue pajamas, rubbing sleep from his eyes, was Lorenzo’s seven-year-old son, Leo.
Since his mother died three years ago, Leo had become a shadow in the massive estate, wandering the halls at night. Bianca always played the doting stepmother in public, but I had seen her lock him out of the drawing room when Lorenzo wasn’t looking.
“Leo, buddy, you’re supposed to be in bed,” Lorenzo said, his entire demeanor softening instantly. He stood up and walked toward his son.
“I couldn’t sleep,” Leo mumbled. “The bad men with the tractors woke me up this afternoon. I went out to Grandma’s garden to play before they ruined it.”
Leo reached into the pocket of his pajama pants.
“I found this buried under the dirt near Martha’s house,” Leo said. “The tractors dug it up.”
Leo held out his small hands. Resting in his palms was a heavy, rusted iron lockbox.
It was encrusted with dirt and decades of rust, but I could clearly see the Bellini family crest engraved on the top.
Lorenzo knelt down and took the box from his son. His hands shook slightly as he brushed the dirt from the crest. He recognized it immediately.
“My mother’s private lockbox,” Lorenzo whispered. “She told me she lost this twenty years ago.”
“Open it, Lorenzo,” Aunt Eleanor urged, stepping away from the table.
Lorenzo broke the rusted latch with his thumb. The box groaned as the lid popped open.
Inside the velvet-lined interior, there was no jewelry. There was no money.
Resting on the faded fabric was a heavy, silver pocket watch. The glass face was shattered, and the hands were frozen at 11:42. The silver casing was stained with something dark, brown, and crusted.
Dried blood.
Lorenzo stared at the watch, all the air leaving his lungs.
“What is it, sir?” I asked quietly, unable to stop myself.
May you like
Lorenzo slowly lifted the bloody watch by its silver chain. He turned it over. Engraved on the back was a roaring lion—the crest of the Marino family.
“This belongs to Dante Marino,” Lorenzo said, his voice dropping to a terrifying, hollow whisper. “This is the watch he was wearing the night my mother was murdered.”
