Chapter 3 - The Debt of a Don
The marble floor seemed to tilt beneath my feet. I gripped the edge of the mahogany desk to steady myself.
“Save yours?” I choked out. “The police said his car skidded on the ice. They said he hit the guardrail.”
Alessandro’s jaw tightened. “The police in Milan say what we pay them to say.”
Emma tugged at my apron. “Mommy, why is the sad man crying?”
I looked up. Alessandro wasn’t crying, but his dark eyes were bright with an unshed, heavy grief. He knelt down again, not caring about the creases in his expensive suit. “I’m not crying, little bird. I’m just remembering a very brave friend.”
He stood up and poured two glasses of amber liquid, pressing one into my trembling hands.
“Two years ago,” Alessandro began, his voice gravelly, “my father’s rivals ambushed my motorcade. My driver was killed instantly. I was trapped in the backseat. A man passing by—a civilian, I thought—dragged me from the burning wreckage.”
I stared at the silver watch in my palm. The engraving of the wolf was worn down from Thomas rubbing his thumb over it, a nervous habit he’d had since we met.
“That man was Thomas,” Alessandro continued. “He got me out, but the rival gunmen fired back. He took the bullets meant for me.”
A sob tore out of my throat. Two years of believing my husband died a careless, accidental death. Two years of agonizing over why he was driving on that road.
“Before he died in my arms,” Alessandro said, stepping closer, “he shoved this watch into my hand. He told me he had a wife and a baby girl. He made me swear to find you. To protect you.”
I looked at him, disbelief warring with anger. “And your idea of protecting us was letting me scrub your floors? Letting your fiancée slap me in public?”
Alessandro looked away, a muscle ticking in his jaw. “I searched for you for eighteen months, Sarah. Thomas gave me a fake name. The police records were scrubbed. It was as if you didn't exist. When you finally applied for a job here under your maiden name, my security flagged you. I hired you to keep you close while I figured out who scrubbed Thomas's files.”
“And the rabbit?” I demanded, pointing to the toy Emma was rocking in her arms. “What does the symbol mean?”
Alessandro’s gaze darkened. “The Black Crown was the emblem of the original founding family of the Milan syndicate. They were wiped out thirty years ago. Or so we thought. If Thomas had that symbol stitched into his daughter’s toy, he wasn’t a civilian.”
Before I could process the idea that my gentle, loving husband was involved in the mafia, the heavy double doors creaked open.
Alessandro’s head of security, Marco, stepped inside. His face was pale. “Boss. You need to come upstairs.”
“I’m busy, Marco.”
“It’s Vivian’s suite, sir,” Marco swallowed hard. “We found something in her safe.”
Alessandro motioned for me to pick up Emma and follow him.
We climbed the grand staircase to the East Wing. Inside Vivian’s opulent bedroom, the wall safe had been cracked open. Marco handed Alessandro a thick manila envelope.
Alessandro pulled out a stack of 8x10 photographs. He froze.
May you like
He handed the top photo to me. My blood ran cold.
It was a picture of Emma and me, taken at the park three days before Thomas died. In the corner of the photo, a red crosshair was drawn directly over my husband’s chest.
