Chapter 3 - The Ghost in the Security Room
Enzo escorted us through a maze of soundproofed corridors to a secondary suite on the third floor—a room far more luxurious than any place a maid had a right to inhabit, complete with velvet drapes, a king-sized bed, and a private bathroom stocked with plush towels.
"Stay inside," Enzo instructed, his hand resting casually near the silhouette of a shoulder holster beneath his suit jacket. "The Boss has given orders. No one touches you. But if you try to leave this floor, my men won't be as polite as I am."
"I just want to keep my daughter safe," I replied, pulling Emma closer to my side.
"Then keep her quiet," Enzo said, turning on his heel and locking the door from the outside.
Once the lock clicked, I let out a breath I felt like I’d been holding since morning. I sank onto the edge of the oversized bed, pulling Emma onto my lap.
"Are you hungry, baby?" I asked, stroking her tangled dark curls.
"A little," she whispered, her eyes wide as she looked around the grand room. "Is this a hotel, Mama?"
"Something like that, sweetie. We're staying here for a little while as guests of the big man."
"The man with the sick breathing?"
"Yes, him."
While Emma explored a basket of fresh fruit left on the mahogany side table, I paced the plush carpet. My mind raced at breakneck speed. Vincenzo Rossi. If Alessandro Moretti believed his oldest friend had tried to assassinate him, a war was coming. A quiet, bloody war fought in the shadows of New York's high-rises and shipping yards. And somehow, my daughter and I had stumbled right into the crosshairs.
An hour later, a soft chime sounded at the door.
I peeked through the brass peephole. Standing in the hallway was not a guard, but a young man in a crisp gray suit carrying a large tablet computer and a tray of warm chicken soup and grilled cheese sandwiches for Emma.
"Miss Vance?" he asked politely when I opened the crack of the door. "I'm Marcus, Mr. Moretti's digital strategist. The Boss sent me. He wants you to see something."
I hesitated, then stepped back, letting him enter. Emma immediately gravitated toward the food, her stomach rumbling audibly.
Marcus set the tablet on the coffee table and tapped the screen, bringing up a high-definition video feed timestamped from the previous evening.
"This is the private elevator lobby outside the master study," Marcus explained, pointing to the screen. "Mr. Moretti’s security feeds are encrypted, but we keep a secondary backup that bypasses standard protocol. Watch closely."
On the screen, a tall, impeccably dressed man with silver-streaked hair walked up to Alessandro’s private office door. It was Vincenzo Rossi. He carried a small leather briefcase, unlocked Alessandro’s door with a master key card, and slipped inside for less than forty seconds before emerging empty-handed, a cool, calculated smile playing on his lips.
"He swapped the inhalers himself," I whispered, horrified.
"He thought he was being clever," Marcus said, adjusting his glasses. "He timed it during the transition of the security guard shifts. What he didn't count on was your daughter hiding in the laundry room, sneaking out to explore, and wandering into the study because she heard wheezing through the floor vents."
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"She has an instinct for it," I said softly, looking over at Emma, who was happily biting into her sandwich. "When you live with a chronic illness, you learn to hear every change in the air."
Marcus nodded slowly. "Mr. Moretti wants to meet you both in the underground tactical room in twenty minutes. He says it's time to settle accounts."
