Chapter 2 - THE MAN IN LORENZO’S CHAIR
Vincent took one step down into the cellar.
Then another.
Sophia stood between him and Lorenzo with Emma in her arms.
She knew how ridiculous it looked.
A maid in a plain black uniform.
A three-year-old child in a red corduroy dress.
A broken pair of pink scissors clutched in one hand.
Against Vincent Romano, the man who had controlled Lorenzo’s security for eleven years.
But Sophia had spent too long being underestimated.
“Move,” Vincent said.
His voice had lost its warmth.
Sophia did not.
“Marco is coming,” she said.
Vincent gave a short laugh.
“Marco Bruno will not reach this house.”
The words chilled her.
“What did you do?”
“Nothing permanent.” He glanced toward Lorenzo. “Not yet.”
Lorenzo’s eyes burned with silent fury.
Vincent continued down the stairs, stopping several feet away.
“You should have called me, Sophia.”
“I did not trust you.”
“No,” Vincent said. “You were not supposed to.”
Emma buried her face against Sophia’s shoulder.
Vincent noticed the broken scissors in Sophia’s hand.
His mouth curved into something almost amused.
“Is that what you intend to use?”
Sophia said nothing.
Vincent’s gaze shifted toward Lorenzo.
“You always liked collecting strays, Lorenzo. A widow in the laundry wing. A child with nowhere to go. Men with criminal records. Boys from the docks. You believed loyalty could be bought with kindness.”
Lorenzo’s voice was weak but steady.
“It can’t be bought at all.”
Vincent smiled.
“And that is why you are dying in your own cellar.”
Above them, the bell rang again.
This time, it was followed by voices.
Several men.
Sophia heard the words “main hall” and “secure the gates.”
Vincent had taken control of the house.
But then a loud crash sounded from the kitchen.
Vincent turned his head.
A man shouted upstairs.
Another voice answered.
Then came the sharp, unmistakable sound of Marco Bruno’s voice.
“NO ONE MOVES!”
Vincent’s face changed.
Not fear.
Calculation.
He reached inside his jacket.
Sophia moved before he could pull out the gun.
She threw the broken pink scissors directly at his face.
The plastic handle struck his cheek.
It did not hurt him.
But it startled him.
And that single second was enough.
Lorenzo kicked one leg of the iron chair hard against the stone floor. The chair tilted, crashing sideways into Vincent’s knees.
Vincent stumbled.
Sophia ran.
Not away.
Toward the wine rack.
She had noticed Biscotti disappear there earlier. Beneath the bottom shelf was a narrow maintenance hatch, one Sophia had seen only once while cleaning spilled wine.
The hatch led to an old service corridor.
She dropped to her knees, pulled it open, and pushed Emma inside.
“Crawl to the end,” she whispered. “Do not stop. Marco will find you.”
Emma’s eyes widened.
“Mama?”
“Go.”
Biscotti was already inside the tunnel, tail flicking.
Emma followed him.
Sophia pulled the hatch shut just as Vincent recovered.
He grabbed her by the arm.
His fingers bruised her skin instantly.
“You have made this much harder,” he said.
Sophia looked at him.
“No,” she replied. “You did.”
The cellar door burst open.
Marco Bruno entered with two armed men behind him.
Vincent shoved Sophia aside and raised his weapon.
Marco fired first.
The shot struck the stone wall near Vincent’s shoulder.
Vincent ran through a side door near the boiler room, disappearing into the darkness of the lower tunnels.
“After him!” Marco shouted.
But Lorenzo’s voice cut through the chaos.
“No.”
Marco turned.
Lorenzo lay half-fallen beside the chair.
“Boss—”
“Find Emma,” Lorenzo ordered. “Then lock down the house. Vincent isn’t the head of this.”
Marco stared at him.
“What do you mean?”
Lorenzo’s eyes moved to Sophia.
“Tell him what you saw.”
Sophia took the navy button from Lorenzo’s pocket.
Marco’s face hardened.
“That’s Vincent’s.”
“Yes,” Sophia said. “But he said Lorenzo had people inside the police, the port authority, and security. He said someone else was giving orders upstairs.”
Lorenzo closed his hand around the broken pocket watch.
“There was one person in my office tonight besides Vincent.”
Sophia remembered.
The open study door.
Vincent seated in Lorenzo’s chair.
But someone had been standing near the window.
Only a shadow.
Only the edge of a gray coat.
“Who?” Marco asked.
Lorenzo looked toward the ceiling.
“Father Bellini.”
The cellar went silent.
Marco’s face turned white.
Father Bellini was not only the parish priest who attended Duca family funerals.
He was Lorenzo’s godfather.
The man who had baptized Lorenzo, advised him after his father died, and blessed every charity project the Duca family funded.
The man everyone trusted.
Sophia felt the floor vanish beneath her.
Upstairs, a familiar voice spoke through the house intercom.
Calm.
Gentle.
Holy.
“My friends,” Father Bellini said, “Mr. Duca has suffered a terrible accident. For your safety, please remain where you are.”
May you like
Lorenzo stared upward.
Then he whispered, “He finally thinks he has won.”
