Chapter 2 - THE MARK OF THE TRAITOR
The silence in the grand hall was absolute, heavy with the metallic scent of impending violence. A dozen men, the heads of the most dangerous crime families in Milan, had their hands hovering near their waistbands. The safety catches of concealed weapons clicked in the suffocating quiet. Alessandro Moretti, the undisputed king of this dark underworld, remained kneeling before my three-year-old daughter. His thumb brushed over the stitched black symbol on the frayed ear of Emma's blue rabbit. It was a crude, angular serpent eating its own tail—a mark I had never paid any attention to, assuming it was a manufacturer's defect.
"Where did she get this?" Alessandro’s voice was barely above a whisper, yet it carried the undeniable weight of an executioner's axe.
I stepped forward, my maternal instinct overriding the sheer terror of the room. I gently pulled Emma behind my legs, shielding her small body from the predatory gazes of the mafia dons. "It was a gift," I said, my voice trembling but clear. "From her father. He gave it to her shortly before he died."
Alessandro rose to his full height, towering over me. His dark eyes, usually unreadable voids, flickered with something dangerous. "Your husband. Thomas Bennett." It wasn't a question. He already knew everything about me. Of course he did. A man like Moretti didn't hire staff without running thorough background checks.
"Yes," I breathed, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird. "He worked in logistics at the docks. He died in a cargo accident three years ago."
A cold, mirthless smile curved Alessandro's lips. "A cargo accident," he repeated, the words dripping with dark amusement. He turned his gaze to the twelve families, his eyes locking onto Don Ricci, whose face had gone a shade paler. "It seems, gentlemen, that the phantom we've been hunting for the past three years—the rat who leaked our shipping routes to the Russians—was not a phantom at all. He was a dockworker. And he left a little souvenir behind."
Vivian Romano, recovering from her earlier humiliation, scoffed loudly. "Are you listening to this, Alessandro? She's a spy! The wife of a traitor is working in your own home! Have her dragged to the cellar and dealt with!"
Alessandro didn’t even look at her. "Silence, Vivian." The rebuke was soft but laced with venom. He looked back at me, his intense gaze stripping away my defenses. "Thomas Bennett didn't die in an accident, Mrs. Bennett. He was murdered because he stole something very valuable from me. And that symbol on your daughter's toy is the sigil of the Russian Bratva syndicate."
My world tilted. Thomas? A traitor? Connected to the mafia? My sweet, ordinary husband who struggled to pay the rent? "No," I shook my head, tears pricking my eyes. "You're wrong. Thomas was a good man. He didn't know anything about... about your world."
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Alessandro stepped closer, closing the distance between us until I could smell his expensive cologne mixed with the faint scent of gun oil. "I am never wrong. Guards!" he barked, and immediately, four heavily armed men materialized from the shadows. "Take Mrs. Bennett and her daughter to the East Wing. Confine them to the master guest suite. Post guards at the door. No one goes in or out without my express permission. Especially you, Vivian."
As the guards escorted me and a frightened Emma away, I looked back. Alessandro was staring after us, the blue rabbit clenched tightly in his fist. The nightmare had just begun.
