Chapter 3 - THE BEDSIDE CONFESSION
The phone call ended with a sharp click, the dial tone instantly swallowed by the heavy, suffocating atmosphere of the dining room.
Thirty-six elite guests sat paralyzed, their eyes darting between the mafia boss and his disgraced fiancée. Nobody dared to breathe, let alone speak.
Marco stepped forward, keeping a firm, inescapable grip on Vanessa’s arm.
“Boss, should I lock her in the study?” Marco asked, his deep voice cutting through the silence.
“No,” Gabriel said coldly. “Lock her in the wine cellar. Tie her to the chair. Nobody speaks to her until Vincent gets here.”
Vanessa let out a hysterical laugh, her mascara running down her cheeks in black tracks.
“You think my father is going to crawl to you, Gabriel? You think he’s afraid of a little fire? He has half the city council in his pocket! You’ll be in federal prison before the sun comes up!”
Gabriel didn’t even blink. He gestured with a flick of his hand, and Marco hauled her away toward the servant’s corridor, her angry screams echoing down the marble hallway until the heavy cellar door slammed shut.
The dining room remained dead silent.
Gabriel slowly turned around. His dark eyes bypassed the wealthy guests, bypassing the untouched food on the silver platters, and landed squarely on his daughter.
Ella was still clutching her wooden memory box, her small lower lip trembling.
“Daddy,” she whispered, her voice heartbreakingly small. “What did that lady mean about my daddy?”
Gabriel’s hard, ruthless exterior cracked instantly. He rushed across the room, dropping heavily to his knees in front of her chair.
He pulled Ella into his arms, burying his face in her dark hair.
“You are my daughter, Ella,” Gabriel choked out, the raw emotion in his voice bringing tears to my own eyes. “Nobody in this world—do you hear me? Nobody—will ever change that. You are a Romano, through and through.”
“Even if I’m not smart like Mommy?” she sobbed against his shoulder.
“You are smarter than your mother, and you are stronger than me,” Gabriel whispered fiercely. “Don't ever let anyone tell you otherwise.”
He looked up, catching my gaze across the table.
There was a silent plea in his eyes—a mix of exhaustion, grief, and desperate gratitude.
“Claire,” he said quietly, standing up with Ella still held securely in his arms. “Take her upstairs. Get her ready for bed. Put the memory box safely on her desk.”
“Yes, Mr. Romano,” I murmured, stepping forward.
I gently took Ella’s small, warm hand. She looked exhausted, her eyes heavy with tears. I led her out of the grand dining room, leaving the wealthy guests murmuring among themselves like a swarm of anxious hornets.
As we walked up the sweeping grand staircase, I couldn't stop my mind from racing.
If Vanessa’s blackmail letter claimed Ella wasn't Gabriel’s daughter, what was the truth? I had known Catherine Romano during her final months. She was a gentle, deeply loving woman who adored her husband. The idea that she had a secret past—or a second life—felt entirely impossible.
We reached Ella’s bedroom on the third floor.
It was a large, beautiful room painted in soft pastels, filled with books, stuffed animals, and framed photographs of Catherine smiling.
I helped Ella change into her soft cotton pajamas. She climbed into bed, clutching a stuffed rabbit her mother had given her.
“Claire?” she asked softly as I pulled the duvet up to her chin.
“Yes, sweetheart?”
“Is Daddy going to be okay? The bad lady looked very angry.”
I sat on the edge of the mattress, brushing a curl from her forehead.
“Your daddy is very strong, Ella. He’s going to make sure everyone who hurt your family answers for it.”
She nodded sleepily, her eyelids fluttering shut. Within minutes, the deep, even breathing of a sleeping child filled the quiet room.
I placed the wooden memory box carefully on her mahogany desk, right where she could see it when she woke up.
As I turned to leave, my sleeve brushed against the corner of the desk, knocking a small, loose piece of paper off the edge.
It fluttered down and landed face-up on the Persian rug.
I knelt to pick it up.
It wasn't a greeting card or a photograph. It was a torn strip of heavy medical chart paper, folded neatly in half.
I unfolded it.
Printed at the top was the letterhead of St. Catherine’s Hospital, dated three days before Catherine passed away.
It wasn't a bill. It was a handwritten nurse’s shift log.
And right in the middle of the page, highlighted in yellow marker, was a single entry that made my blood run ice cold.
“Patient Catherine Romano requested visitor Rebecca Hale to be denied entry. Visitor entered through service elevator at 2:15 AM using stolen staff badge. Patient’s personal silver butterfly clip missing following incident.”
I stared at the paper in horror.
Catherine hadn’t given the butterfly to Vanessa willingly.
Vanessa had stolen it from her hospital room in the middle of the night while Catherine was too weak to fight back.
And right beneath that log entry, written in Catherine’s shaky, dying handwriting, was a second note:
“If I don’t survive, find the second key in the greenhouse floor safe. Tell Gabriel the truth about the night of the fire.”
The greenhouse floor safe?
I had worked on this estate for four years, cleaning every inch of the mansion and the surrounding grounds. I knew the library secret passage, I knew the wine cellar tunnels.
I had never heard of a floor safe in the greenhouse.
And before I could process what the night of the fire meant, the bedroom door slowly pushed open.
May you like
Gabriel stood in the doorway, his broad shoulders tense, his eyes dark with a terrifying, unyielding resolve.
“Claire,” Gabriel whispered, stepping into the room. “Vincent Bellini is down in the cellar. And he just told me something about my wife’s death that changes everything.”
