Chapter 2 - Echoes of the Romano Bloodline
By six-thirty in the morning, the rain had settled into a gray, greasy mist that clung to the iron spikes of the Moretti perimeter.
Alessandro sat at the head of the long oak dining table in the east wing, a cup of black espresso untouched before him. Across the room, Marco Bellini, his chief of security and foster brother in all but blood, laid a series of high-resolution digital photographs across the polished wood.
“The perimeter sensors didn't trip, Boss,” Marco said, his voice gravelly from lack of sleep. He pointed a scarred finger at a thermal printout of the northern drainage ditch. “Whoever came in used an old maintenance override code. One that hasn’t been active since your uncle ran the docks in ninety-eight. Only three people alive know that code: you, me, and old man Rossi—who died of a stroke two years ago.”
“Or someone who spent hours copying documents from my father’s terminal,” Alessandro said quietly. He rubbed his temples, feeling the dull ache of a migraine forming behind his eyes. “What do we have on Daniel Vance?”
Marco pulled a thick manila folder from his leather briefcase and tossed it onto the table.
“Vance is a ghost with a trust fund. His father, Arthur Vance, was a mid-level financier for the Romano family before Enzo Romano purged the financial wing back in twenty-twenty. Official record says Arthur died in a boating accident off Montrose Harbor. Unofficial record—the kind we buy with dark crypto—says Arthur tried to skim five million from the Romano pension fund to pay off debts to the Outfit down in Little Italy. Enzo gave him a choice: exile or a concrete suit.”
“And Daniel?”
“He dropped out of Northwestern Law three years ago, bounced around Europe, and reappeared in Chicago six months ago—right around the time you and Miss Isabella set the wedding date.” Marco leaned against the back of an empty chair, his eyes narrowing. “Boss, if Daniel Vance is working with Isabella, this isn't just a domestic dispute. This is a faction war. The old Romano loyalists who hated Enzo’s peace treaty with you are trying to reclaim the family name.”
Alessandro picked up a photograph of Daniel Vance taken from a traffic camera near Lincoln Park. The young man had sharp features, dark hair swept back from a high forehead, and eyes that looked haunted even through the pixelated lens.
“She claims the council is planning to hit us during the wedding,” Alessandro muttered.
“Of course she does,” Marco snorted. “It’s classic tradecraft. Plant a ghost, stage an intrusion, feed you a doomsday scenario so you look outward while they hollow you out from the inside. She’s playing you, Alessandro. She’s an Enzo Romano girl through and through—born in a mansion with gold-plated toilets and raised to believe betrayal is just another word for negotiation.”
Alessandro stood up, walking toward the high arched windows that looked out over the mist-shrouded gardens.
He remembered the way Isabella’s hands had trembled when she gripped the desk. He remembered the genuine terror in her voice when she screamed at Emma to run. People trained to lie didn't usually make mistakes that exposed their operatives to three-year-old children.
“Check the security logs for the past three months,” Alessandro ordered, turning back to Marco. “Every phone call originating from the west wing. Every visitor who came to see Miss Isabella while I was in New York. I want to know every person she’s spoken to, every ledger she’s touched, and every bank account tied to her name.”
“And Miss Isabella herself?” Marco asked carefully. “Do we restrict her movements?”
“No,” Alessandro said after a long pause. “Let her move. A trapped bird only beats its wings against the cage. I want to see who she flies to when she thinks the door is open.”
May you like
As Marco gathered the photographs and headed toward the exit, Alessandro walked out into the central courtyard. The cold rain misted his face, but he barely felt it. His mind was replaying every conversation he had shared with Isabella over the past six months—every laugh, every shared glass of Barolo, every quiet evening by the hearth.
Had any of it been real? Or was he just another mark in a long line of men who thought they could tame a Romano?
