Chapter 3 - The Interrogation of Shadows
Three hours later.
The private medical wing in the lower level of the Moretti compound was locked down under maximum security. Four heavy-armed syndicate guards stood at the entrance, while two Moretti family doctors stitched the three-inch laceration on Lydia’s left arm.
Lorenzo stood behind the floor-to-ceiling one-way glass mirror, watching her.
She sat on the stainless-steel examination table, wearing a clean oversized dark grey hoodie that belonged to Lorenzo. Her thick, dark hair was loose, tumbling over her shoulders in rich, heavy waves. She was staring at her bandaged forearm, her posture quiet, withdrawn, and guarded.
The heavy steel door unlocked, and Lorenzo stepped into the room.
The doctors instantly bowed their heads and retreated, closing the door behind them, leaving Lorenzo and Lydia alone in the sterile silence.
Lorenzo pulled a heavy wooden chair across the floor, placed it directly in front of her, and sat down. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, his massive hands loosely clasped between his legs.
"Mateo is sleeping," Lorenzo said, his deep voice filling the quiet space. "The doctors gave him a mild sedative. He kept blinking at me, trying to tell me to make sure you were okay."
Lydia didn't look up immediately. "He’s a good man," she murmured, her voice soft and rough. "He doesn't deserve to live in a cage."
"And you?" Lorenzo asked, leaning an inch closer. "What do you deserve, Lydia?"
Lydia finally raised her head. Her hazel eyes met his with a striking, unblinking clarity that few men in Chicago dared to maintain. "I deserve to keep my job. I need the money."
Lorenzo let out a low, dry laugh that lacked any humor. "A maid who takes out an elite Camorra hitman with a two-hand combat drill and an elbow to the carotid artery doesn't work for seven hundred dollars a week, sweetheart."
He reached into his jacket pocket, pulled out a thick manila folder, and dropped it onto her lap.
"Lydia Coppola," Lorenzo read from memory. "Born in South Chicago. Mother died when you were six. Raised in foster care. Worked as a nurse’s aide at St. Jude’s Hospital for four years before applying for a maid position at my estate nine days ago. Perfectly ordinary. Completely invisible."
He pointed a long, scarred finger at the folder.
"Except St. Jude's hospital has no record of a Lydia Coppola ever working there. Your social security number was activated three months ago in Baltimore. And the combat form you used tonight... that's top-tier Israeli Krav Maga mixed with specialized close-quarters defensive maneuvers used by the Italian State Police."
Lydia sat silently, her face a smooth mask of complete indifference. "You can hire whoever you want to investigate me, Mr. Moretti. But I saved your brother's life."
"I know you did," Lorenzo said softly. He reached out, his long, warm fingers wrapping around her chin, forcing her to look straight into his eyes. His thumb brushed over her soft cheekbone. "Which is the only reason you are sitting in this warm chair instead of hanging upside down in my basement."
Lydia didn't flinch at the threat. She leaned slightly into his grip, her eyes narrowing. "If I wanted Mateo dead, I could have turned off his ventilator six days ago when I was cleaning his room alone."
"I know," Lorenzo whispered. "I was watching you on the hidden cameras."
Lydia froze. A subtle shift occurred in her eyes—the first crack in her armor. "What?"
"I hid three micro-cameras in my brother's room two weeks ago," Lorenzo confessed smoothly, his thumb continuing its slow, rhythmic stroke against her cheek. "I knew there was a mole in my inner circle. I knew someone was leaking Mateo's medical schedules to our rivals in New York. I put those cameras there to catch the traitor."
He leaned in until his lips were just inches from her ear, his hot breath brushing against her neck.
"I didn't expect to catch a beautiful, lethal shadow who spends her nights sitting beside my brother, reading him Dante's Inferno in perfect, fluent Tuscan Italian when she thinks no one is listening."
Lydia’s breath hitched in her throat. Her cheeks flushed a deep, magnificent pink.
"Who sent you, Lydia?" Lorenzo growled gently, his fingers tightening against her jawline. "Are you CIA? Interpol? Or are you working for another syndicate?"
Lydia closed her eyes for a brief second, taking a slow, steadying breath. When she opened them, the coldness was gone, replaced by a deep, heartbreaking exhaustion.
"My name is Captain Lydia Rossi," she whispered, her voice barely audible. "Former Italian Special Forces, Counter-Terrorism Division."
Lorenzo’s eyes flared with intense interest. "Go on."
"Two years ago, my unit was deployed to Naples," Lydia said, her voice laced with old pain. "We were investigating the same ambush that paralyzed your brother. My younger brother... he was a rookie driver for the Italian police escort. He was killed in the crossfire."
She looked straight into Lorenzo's grey eyes.
"The men who ordered that strike weren't your rivals, Lorenzo. They were men inside your own house. I tracked them to Chicago. I forged my identity to get into this mansion to find the man who gave the order that murdered my brother and destroyed your twin."
Lorenzo stared at her. The air in the room grew heavy, electric, and thick with a terrifying realization.
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The mole wasn't an outside hitman. The mole was inside the Moretti inner circle.
And the woman sitting in front of him wasn't an enemy. She was the divine weapon destiny had dropped right into his lap.
