THE MAID’S FOUR-YEAR-OLD DAUGHTER TOLD A MAFIA BOSS TO LOOK UNDER THE TABLE—WHAT HE SAW MADE HIM DESTROY THE WOMAN HE LOVED

Clara felt a cold chill run down her spine. Victor Romano—Aleandro's most trusted advisor, the right hand of the family for over twenty years—was conspiring with the stranger who had terrified Sophia.

"Emma," Clara whispered, gripping the little girl's arms gently. "You must never, ever repeat that to anyone. Do you understand me? Not to Mr. Victor, not to the guards."

"Not even to Mr. Aleandro?" Emma asked, tilting her head. "He was nice to me. He said thank you."

"Mr. Aleandro is hurting right now," Clara said, her voice trembling. "And right now, he trusts the wrong person."

Clara spent the rest of the night tossing in her small room in the servants' wing. She owed everything to the Moretti family, but specifically to Sophia. Two years ago, when Emma fell gravely ill with a rare respiratory infection, it was Sophia who secretly paid for the specialist medical treatment out of her own allowance, keeping Clara’s pride intact. Sophia was not a traitor. She was a victim.

By dawn, the mansion was shrouded in thick fog. Aleandro had not slept a single second. He sat behind his desk, surrounded by empty glasses and fragmented financial reports provided by Victor. Every piece of paper pointed to Sophia's guilt—unexplained withdrawals, secret calls made from burner phones, visits to anonymous postal boxes.

It was too perfect. Too neatly tied up.

Aleandro pulled the small white card with the black dot from his pocket. He turned it over in his hands. In the old syndicate days, a black dot on a white card was a Mark of Extinction—a silence order given to someone whose family was held hostage.

If Sophia was selling him out, why give her a Mark of Extinction?

A light knock echoed through the study. It wasn't Victor's heavy knock, nor a guard's sharp rap. It was light, hesitant.

"Come in," Aleandro called.

Clara stepped inside, holding a tray with fresh black coffee and a small plate of toast. She kept her eyes low, setting the tray down silently.

"I didn't order coffee, Clara," Aleandro said softly, his voice raspy.

"I thought you might need it, sir," she replied softly. She lingered for a moment, wiping down the edge of the mahogany desk with a damp cloth. As she wiped near the black-dotted card, her hand trembled violently.

Aleandro noticed. "You know what this card means, Clara?"

Clara froze. She looked toward the closed door, then back at the Don. "I don't know about cards, sir. But I know Miss Sophia. She cries in her room every night after you leave for business. Not out of guilt... out of terror."