Chapter 5 - Whispers Behind the Mahogany
By midnight, the gala was finally winding down.
The music had stopped, the valet line outside had cleared, and the echoing silence of the massive mansion had returned. Sofia had fallen asleep hours ago, exhausted from the emotional storm of the evening, her small hand firmly locked in mine until sleep finally claimed her.
I sat in the small adjoining sitting room, unable to sleep. My ankle ached with a dull, throbbing reminder of the week’s events, but it was the look in Marco Romano’s eyes that kept my heart racing.
A man like Marco didn't take public humiliation lightly. He wasn't just a businessman; in Chicago, the Romano name was associated with old, ruthless bloodlines that operated by their own vicious code.
Needing a glass of water, I reached for my crutch, keeping my weight off the healing joint as I quietly eased the nursery door open. The gallery corridor was dimly lit, illuminated only by small amber sconces placed every twenty feet along the wainscoting.
As I approached the grand balcony overlooking the two-story library below, the faint sound of voices drifted through the darkness.
I paused.
The library doors were cracked open. A sliver of warm yellow light spilled across the polished parquet floor.
“—cannot simply cancel the arrangement, Marco!” Isabella’s voice hissed from below, sharp with frantic fury. “The invitations are printed! The society pages have already run the profile! If Luca walks away from this engagement, I will be the laughingstock of every circle in the city!”
I froze, pressing my back against the shadows of the heavy velvet drapery beside the upper gallery railing.
“Shut up, Isabella,” Marco Romano’s gruff, menacing voice replied. The clink of ice against crystal signaled that he was pouring himself a drink from Luca’s private bar. “You think I care about the society pages? You think this marriage was about your vanity?”
“It was about the docks!”
“It was about Elena’s trust fund, you stupid girl,” Marco snapped, his voice dropping into a harsh, conspiratorial whisper that echoed up toward the rafters.
My breath caught in my throat.
*Elena’s trust fund?*
“Luca controls Elena’s family trust until Sofia turns eighteen,” Marco continued, the ice cubes rattling in his glass. “Elena wasn't just some socialite—she was the sole heir to the Castiglione port authorities in Genoa and New York. When she died, that authority was locked in a blind trust for the child. The only way anyone outside of Luca touches that revenue is through legal guardianship.”
A heavy silence followed. I peered carefully through the bronze balustrades.
Marco was standing by the fireplace, his tuxedo jacket unbuttoned, swirling amber scotch in a tumbler. Isabella stood near the leather sofa, her face pale, the emerald dress reflecting the firelight.
“What are you saying?” Isabella whispered.
“I’m saying that once you are his legal wife, if something happens to Luca—if an unfortunate accident occurs on the docks or an unexpected tragedy takes place—you become Sofia’s legal guardian.” Marco took a slow, deliberate sip. “And through Sofia, the Castiglione trust falls directly into Romano hands. We wouldn't just own Chicago. We would control every container ship coming into the eastern seaboard.”
My blood turned to ice water.
They weren't just planning an alliance. They were planning a takeover. And implied within Marco’s words was something far more horrifying: *if an unfortunate accident occurs to Luca...*
“Luca is suspicious,” Isabella said, her voice trembling slightly. “Ever since that pathetic little nanny fell down the stairs, he has been watching me like a hawk. He threatened me tonight, Father! In front of the staff!”
Marco set his glass down on the mahogany table with a sharp, heavy thud.
“Then the nanny has to go.”
“I tried to replace her tonight! You saw what happened!”
“You acted like an amateur,” Marco said with disgust. “You tried to bully a man who eats wolves for breakfast. You don't push Luca Moretti out the front door. You cut his legs out from underneath him from the inside.”
“How?”
Marco leaned in closer to his daughter, his voice dropping so low I had to strain every nerve in my body to hear it.
“Luca’s dead wife was his only weakness. He treats her memory like a sacred shrine. He has a safe behind the portrait in his private study. In that safe is the Castiglione emerald necklace—the heirloom Elena wore on their wedding day. It’s worth three million dollars, but to Luca, it’s worth more than his own life.”
Isabella’s eyes widened. “You want me to steal it?”
“Not steal it,” Marco murmured, a sickening, triumphant smile spreading across his weathered face. “Plant it. In the nanny’s quarters.”
My heart hammered so violently against my ribs I thought the wood of the balustrade would vibrate.
“If an item of Elena’s goes missing,” Marco continued, “Luca won't listen to explanations. He won't care about Sofia’s tears. He will tear this mansion apart with his bare hands. And when it’s found hidden under that girl’s mattress, Luca will throw her out into the street himself—or worse. With the girl gone, Sofia will have no one left to cling to. You step in. You console the child. You play the devoted mother. And Luca’s eyes will be off his back when the time comes to handle him.”
Isabella slowly smiled. The fear that had been on her face vanished, replaced by the dark, venomous satisfaction of a snake preparing to strike.
“The study is locked,” she noted.
“The combination hasn't changed in five years,” Marco said casually, pulling a folded slip of paper from his pocket and handing it to her. “Elena’s birthday and the date of their daughter’s birth. Luca is sentimental. Sentimental men are predictable. Do it tomorrow while he’s meeting with the transport board.”
I took a trembling step backward into the shadows of the hallway.
My crutch slipped.
The rubber base scraped against the brass runner on the edge of the carpet with a sharp, echoing *screeeeech*.
Down in the library, both voices instantly died.
“Who’s there?” Marco’s voice barked, sharp as a whip.
Panic flooded my veins. Ignoring the blinding fire that erupted in my injured ankle, I abandoned the crutch, leaning heavily against the wall as I half-limped, half-dragged myself down the dark corridor toward the north wing.
May you like
Footsteps pounded up the spiral stairs behind me—fast, heavy, and furious.
***
