Chapter 3 - The Family Web
The blue butterfly charm sat on a black velvet tray in the center of Roman’s private study on the third floor.
The study was a room built of dark mahogany, leather-bound books, and bulletproof glass overlooking the front driveway. Outside, three black suburban vehicles belonging to the Federal Bureau of Investigation had pulled up to the security gates, their red and blue lights flashing against the stone walls. But the gates remained shut. In this county, the Valente family’s authority superseded federal warrants until Roman decided otherwise.
Sophia was fast asleep on the deep leather sofa in the corner, wrapped in Roman’s heavy cashmere coat, her small hand clutching Mara’s fingers even in her sleep. Mara sat on a low stool beside the sofa, refusing to leave the child’s side.
Roman stood at his desk, staring down at the velvet tray.
Standing across from him was his younger brother, Julian Valente—a sharp, thirty-two-year-old lawyer who managed the family’s legal holdings and legitimate real estate portfolios. Julian looked pristine, his hair perfectly combed, his tie unruffled, though a faint sweat glinted along his hairline.
Beside Julian stood Isabella, her hands cuffed behind her back with heavy plastic flex-cuffs applied by Franco.
“The fingerprint results came back from the lab in the basement,” Julian said, his tone crisp, analytical, and entirely businesslike. “The sterling silver fake bracelet had three partial prints on the clasp. One belongs to Isabella. One belongs to a mid-level associate in the Moretti crew out of New Jersey.”
At the mention of the Moretti name, Roman’s eyes darkened into pitch.
The Moretti family was the principal rival to the Valente syndicate—a ruthless, chaotic organization that had been pushing to take over the Manhattan shipping docks for five years.
“Isabella,” Roman said, his voice flat. “Talk.”
Isabella was weeping now, her expensive makeup ruined, streaks of mascara running down her porcelain cheeks.
“They... they had pictures, Roman!” Isabella sobbed, her voice cracking frantically. “Julian knows! Julian introduced me to Marco Moretti at the gallery opening in Soho two months ago!”
Julian’s face didn't change, but his fingers twitched once against his thigh. “I introduced you to an art collector, Isabella. I had no idea he was affiliated with the Morettis.”
“You lie!” Isabella screamed, trying to step toward her brother, but Franco’s heavy hand on her shoulder pinned her in place. “You knew! Marco took pictures of me in the hotel room in Miami! He had videos! He said if I didn't help him swap the bracelet during the party, he would send the tapes to the press and to the parish board! My life would have been over, Roman! My marriage! My reputation!”
Roman looked at his sister-in-law with an expression of pure, unadulterated disgust.
“You sacrificed my daughter’s life for your reputation?” Roman asked softly.
“I didn't know about the cake!” Isabella wailed, shaking her head wildly. “I swear to Almighty God I didn't know about the poison! Marco told me the fake bracelet was just a tracker! He said they wanted to track Sophia’s location so they could kidnap her for leverage during the dock negotiations! He said no one would get hurt!”
“You gave them access to the house, Isabella,” Roman said coldly. “You used your keycard to drop circuit breaker 4B so their pastry specialist could access the kitchen through the service elevator.”
He turned his head slowly to look at his brother.
“And who provided the keycard code for the service elevator, Julian?” Roman asked.
Julian didn't flinch. He adjusted his silk cuffs with absolute composure. “The service elevator codes are updated monthly by security, Roman. As Chief Legal Officer, I have administrative oversight of the entire security network. If someone breached the elevator, it was a system failure, not an internal betrayal on my part.”
Mara looked up from the sofa.
Her sharp nurse’s eye caught something subtle—the rhythm of Julian’s throat as he spoke. He was breathing through his nose in measured, rhythmic intervals. A stress-response control technique used by military officers and high-stakes liars.
“Mr. Valente,” Mara spoke up quietly, her voice cutting through the heavy mahogany room.
Julian shot her a warning glance—a look of cold, aristocratic disdain. “Keep quiet, servant. This is a family matter.”
“Let her speak,” Roman commanded instantly.
Mara stood up slowly, keeping her hand close to Sophia. “When Master Lin’s cake was delivered this morning, it was brought in through the subterranean bay at six-ten AM. The delivery manifest was signed by two people. The first was me. The second was your brother’s executive secretary, Mr. Julian.”
Julian’s eyes narrowed. “I sign fifty delivery manifests a day for this estate.”
“Yes,” Mara agreed smoothly. “But the cake box was sealed with red tamper-evident tape from the bakery. When I helped carry the box to the walk-in cooler at six-fifteen AM, the tape was intact. At one PM—one hour before the party started—I went into the cooler to prepare the dessert plates. The red tape on the main box had been cut and replaced with clear cellotape.”
She looked directly at Julian.
“Clear cellotape of the exact width and grade used in the legal administration offices on the second floor,” Mara added. “I know because I restock the stationery trays in your office every Tuesday morning, Mr. Valente.”
A silence settled over the study that was colder than the morgue Mara used to work in.
Roman slowly walked around his mahogany desk. He stopped six inches from his brother.
“Julian,” Roman whispered. “Look at me.”
Julian held his head high, but his right eyelid gave a tiny, uncontrollable flutter. “Roman, you aren't seriously going to take the word of a fired nurse over your own brother? She’s an outsider. She’s trying to manipulate you to secure a payout.”
May you like
Roman didn't argue. He reached out, grabbed Julian by the lapels of his three-thousand-dollar suit, and slammed him backward against the heavy bulletproof window with a crash that rattled the glass frame.
“Where is Marco Moretti?” Roman growled into his brother’s face.
