Chapter 68 - The Dead Woman's Shadow
We had a traitor inside the compound.
Vincent did not panic; he became lethally still. That was the most dangerous version of Vincent Moretti—the man who did not shout, but whose mind calculated trajectories of betrayal with clinical precision.
"Nobody leaves this level," Vincent ordered Salvatore quietly. "Tell the garrison there is a standard security drill underway. Cut all external network uplinks. Put the fortress on localized battery power and monitor which terminals draw power."
"Understood," Salvatore murmured, vanishing into the shadows of the vaulted stone corridor.
Vincent turned back to me. His expression was unreadable, but the tension radiating from his frame was palpable. "Upstairs. Now."
I didn't argue. With Maya asleep against my shoulder, I followed him through the labyrinth of arched stone hallways until we reached the private quarters on the fourth tier. The suite was surprisingly warm, decorated with deep mahogany furniture, a burning hearth, and heavy wool rugs. But behind an unobtrusive bookshelf sat the reinforced steel door of the safe room.
I gently laid Maya down on the king-sized bed, pulling the thick down comforter over her small frame. She sighed in her sleep, tucking her thumb into her mouth.
I stood by the edge of the bed for a long moment, my hand lingering on her forehead. Five years. For five years, I had believed that I had built a clean, honest life for her in the quiet coastal villages of Spain and France. I had baked bread, taught her French, watched her learn to ride a bicycle on gravel roads. All of it was an illusion. She was a Moretti, and the past was a predator with an inexhaustible scent for blood.
The bedroom door clicked shut. Vincent stood leaning against the frame, watching us.
"You look at her like she’s made of glass," he said softly.
"She’s a child, Vincent. She’s not a soldier. She’s not a bargaining chip."
"She is my daughter," he countered, stepping into the room. He stopped two feet away from me, his presence overwhelming the small space between us. "Do you think I wanted this for her? Do you think I spent five years tearing Europe apart looking for you just to throw her into this meat grinder?"
"You wanted revenge," I countered, looking up to meet his fierce gaze. "You wanted to punish me for walking away with your heir."
Vincent let out a short, humorless laugh. "I didn't care about the heir, Clara. I cared about *you*."
The raw honesty in his confession caught me off guard, stealing the oxygen from my lungs. For a moment, the dangerous mafia don dissolved, leaving behind the man who used to hold me in the dark of his Milan penthouse, whispering promises of a life outside the shadows.
"Don't do that," I whispered, stepping back. "Don't pretend there was love between us. You used me, and now you claim Elena used both of us."
Vincent reached into his coat pocket and tossed a thick, yellowed envelope onto the nightstand beside the bed. It landed with a dull thud.
"That was retrieved from my father’s personal safe after his supposed death three years ago," Vincent said. "I didn't open it until six months ago. It’s written in Elena’s handwriting."
My hands trembled as I reached out and took the envelope. I broke the wax seal and pulled out three pages of neat, slanted cursive.
*My dear Clara,* the letter began. *If you are reading this, Vincent has found you, or I am already dead. There is no middle ground in this war. What you must understand is that Father did not die of illness. The Moretti family poisoned him, piece by piece, to force our family to surrender the Florence Trust. When you fell in love with Vincent, you didn't escape their web—you walked straight into the spider's mouth. Maya is not just Vincent’s daughter. She is the biological key to the Trust's lineage clauses. If Vincent claims her, our family’s bloodline is extinguished forever. Run, Clara. Never let him put the signet ring on her finger.*
I stared at the paper, the ink blurring before my eyes.
"She lied to you," Vincent said, watching my face. "My father didn't poison anyone. He was murdered by a faction backed by your sister."
Before I could process the words, the red emergency beacon above the door began to flash silently.
The suite door was kicked open. Salvatore stood in the frame, his MP5 submachine gun raised, his chest heaving.
May you like
"Boss," Salvatore gasped, blood dripping from a cut above his brow. "The perimeter sensors on the western wall didn't trigger an alarm... because the sentries at Post 3 were already dead. They’re inside the courtyard."
***
