Chapter 1 - THE GIRL WHO DIDN’T KNOW FEAR
“Say sorry to my mommy.”
The little girl’s voice cut through the grand hall like a gunshot.
Every conversation stopped.
Every head turned.
Even the two armed men standing beside the staircase froze.
Three-year-old Sofia Rossi stood in the middle of the polished marble floor, her tiny pink sneakers planted firmly beneath her, both hands on her hips.
Directly in front of her stood Aleandro Moretti.
Six-foot-three.
Charcoal suit.
Cold eyes.
A man whose name could make grown men leave New York overnight.
Nobody told Aleandro Moretti what to do.
Nobody raised their voice at him.
Nobody pointed a finger at him.
Sofia did all three.
“You scared her,” she said.
Behind her, Elena Rossi went pale.
“Sofia.”
Her voice shook.
“Come here. Right now.”
The little girl didn’t move.
Aleandro stared down at her.
Two minutes earlier, Elena had accidentally spilled an entire pot of black coffee down the front of his hand-tailored suit.
She had dropped to her knees immediately.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Moretti. I’m so sorry.”
Her hands had shaken as she reached for the broken porcelain.
Aleandro had said nothing.
That silence had terrified her more than yelling would have.
Everyone in the house knew stories about people who disappointed Aleandro.
Men disappeared.
Businesses changed hands.
Families moved away.
Elena didn’t know which stories were true.
She didn’t want to find out.
But Sofia had seen her mother crying.
And three-year-olds didn’t understand organized crime.
They understood right and wrong.
“My mommy said sorry,” Sofia told him.
Aleandro’s expression remained unreadable.
“And?”
“And now you say sorry too.”
One of the guards near the door lowered his eyes.
The housekeeper beside Elena whispered, “Jesus Christ.”
“Sofia,” Elena said harder. “Enough.”
But Sofia stepped closer to Aleandro.
“You don’t make mommies cry.”
Something changed in his face.
Only for half a second.
Then Sofia’s small silver necklace slipped out from beneath her yellow sweater.
Aleandro’s eyes dropped to it.
He stopped breathing.
The locket was old.
Oval.
Silver.
A tiny rose engraved across the front.
Aleandro stared at it as though someone had driven a knife straight through his chest.
“Where did you get that?”
Elena looked up.
“What?”
His voice sharpened.
“The necklace.”
Sofia touched it.
“Grandma gave it to Mommy.”
Aleandro looked at Elena.
“What was your mother’s name?”
Elena slowly stood.
She didn’t understand the question.
“Isabella.”
His jaw tightened.
“Isabella what?”
“Rossi.”
Aleandro took one step backward.
For the first time anyone in that house could remember, the great Aleandro Moretti looked afraid.
“No,” he whispered.
Elena frowned.
“What is it?”
He looked at Sofia again.
At her eyes.
At the locket.
At the little dimple appearing beside her mouth as she frowned at him.
Twenty years vanished from Aleandro’s face.
He wasn’t standing inside his Long Island estate anymore.
He was twenty-four again.
Standing beneath a streetlamp in Brooklyn.
Holding a crying young woman named Isabella Rossi.
A young woman wearing that exact necklace.
A young woman who had disappeared the next morning.
Aleandro looked back at Elena.
“Your mother,” he said quietly. “Is she alive?”
Elena swallowed.
“No.”
“When did she die?”
“Two years ago.”
His eyes hardened.
“How?”
Elena hesitated.
“Car accident.”
Aleandro went completely still.
Then he turned toward his closest bodyguard.
“Marco.”
“Yes, boss?”
“Lock the gates.”
Elena’s stomach dropped.
“What?”
Aleandro never looked away from her.
“Nobody leaves this property.”
Sofia grabbed her mother’s hand.
Elena pulled her close.
“Mr. Moretti, what is happening?”
Aleandro’s expression darkened.
“Your mother didn’t die in an accident.”
Elena stared at him.
“You don’t know anything about my mother.”
“I knew her before you were born.”
The room seemed to tilt under Elena’s feet.
Aleandro stepped closer.
“And if you’re standing inside this house wearing that necklace…”
His voice dropped.
May you like
“…someone has made a very serious mistake.”
Then a single gunshot exploded outside.
