Chapter 4 - The Traitor's Ink
The photograph slipped from my trembling fingers, fluttering to the plush carpet like a dead leaf.
“Vivian had this?” My voice sounded hollow, like it belonged to someone else. “Vivian was tracking Thomas?”
Alessandro picked up the photo, his expression a terrifying mask of controlled fury. “Not just tracking him. She was targeting him.”
I held Emma tighter against my chest. She buried her face in my neck, sensing the sudden, sharp shift in the room's energy. “But why? Vivian’s family is powerful. Thomas was… Thomas was just an accountant.”
“An accountant who carried the Black Crown symbol,” Alessandro corrected softly. He turned to Marco. “Where is Vivian?”
“She left the grounds after you threw her out of the hall, sir. Headed toward her father’s estate.”
“Lock down the villa,” Alessandro barked. “Nobody gets in or out. Put ten men outside Mrs. Bennett’s quarters. Actually, no. Move Sarah and Emma into the suite adjoining mine. Now.”
Within an hour, our meager belongings from the servant’s quarters were moved into a luxurious, silk-lined bedroom next to the Don’s master suite. Emma, exhausted by the drama, fell asleep on the massive king bed, clutching her blue rabbit.
I sat in a velvet armchair by the window, staring out at the manicured gardens, the silver pocket watch heavy in my palm.
The adjoining door clicked open. Alessandro walked in. He had discarded his suit jacket and tie; the top buttons of his shirt were undone. He looked less like a mafia boss and more like a weary soldier.
He pulled up a chair across from me. “I broke off the engagement.”
I looked at him, startled. “With Vivian? Because of the photo?”
“Because she struck a woman under my protection,” he said, his eyes meeting mine. “And because the photo proves her family, the Romanos, orchestrated the hit on me two years ago. The hit your husband intercepted.”
He reached over and gently took the silver watch from my hand. He pressed his thumb against the small notch at the top—the latch that opened the face. But instead of opening the glass cover, he pressed the winding dial down twice and twisted it.
With a tiny click, the back casing of the watch popped open.
I gasped. I had cleaned that watch a hundred times and never knew there was a hidden compartment.
Inside lay a tiny, tightly folded piece of parchment. Alessandro carefully unfolded it. It was a birth certificate.
I leaned forward. The name on the paper wasn’t Thomas Bennett.
It was Tomaso Moretti.
I looked up, the room spinning. “Moretti? He… he was your family?”
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“My older brother,” Alessandro whispered, a tear finally escaping his stoic facade. “He was kidnapped thirty years ago. We thought he was dead. But he wasn’t dead, Sarah. He was hiding in plain sight. And he left you something else.”
He tilted the watch casing. A small, brass key fell onto the table.
