Chapter 3 - The Locked Room
The sun rose over Lake Forest like a slow smear of lead across a dull gray canvas.
By 7:00 AM, the nursery had been transformed into a crime scene that looked less like a baby’s room and more like a federal investigation bureau. At my insistence, Alessio had kept the door locked all night, allowing no maids, no cooks, and no guards to cross the threshold.
Leo was sleeping soundly in his crib, monitored by a portable pulse oximeter taped gently to his tiny foot. Dr. Rossi had checked in twice via encrypted phone line, confirming that the baby’s lungs showed no signs of secondary infection from the trauma.
Now, the heavy mahogany door opened, and Alessio stepped back inside, followed by a forensic technician named Vance—a quiet, middle-aged man with sharp eyes and a black aluminum case bearing specialized dusting powders and digital microscopes.
“Start with the camera,” I said immediately from my seat in the rocking chair by the window.
Vance paused, looking from me to Alessio.
Alessio gave a slow, deliberate nod. “Do as she says.”
Vance set his case down on the changing table and pulled a small stepstool beneath the dome-shaped security camera mounted near the ceiling. He unscrewed the faceplate with a miniature precision screwdriver.
“Standard closed-circuit IP camera,” Vance muttered, peering into the wiring with a magnifying loupe. “Feeds directly to the security server in the basement. But look here—”
He pointed a small penlight inside the casing.
“The local SD card has been removed.”
Alessio’s expression darkened into something lethal. “Removed? When?”
“Not removed physically,” Vance corrected, tapping the circuit board. “It was wiped remotely. Someone sent a command packet over the estate’s local Wi-Fi network at exactly 2:02 AM. It erased the four-minute buffer leading up to the incident.”
I stood up, walking over to stand beside Vance. “Can it be recovered?”
“On the server downstairs? Maybe,” Vance said, sliding a thumb drive into his pocket. “If the central hard drive hasn't overwritten the sector yet. But whoever did this knew what they were doing. They didn't just delete the footage; they injected dummy data to make it look like a normal loop.”
“Marco,” Alessio said, his voice terrifyingly quiet.
“Beg pardon, boss?” Vance asked.
“Marco IT-trained at MIT before he married my sister,” Alessio said, walking to the window and staring out toward the manicured lawns. “He designed the estate’s internal network architecture six years ago. He is the only man besides Dominic who has root access to the security server.”
“Then we bring him in,” I said.
Alessio turned around, his gaze sharp. “You speak as if questioning my family is like firing an incompetent accountant.”
“I speak as if someone tried to murder a four-month-old infant in his crib while you were downstairs drinking scotch,” I snapped back, refusing to shrink under his mafia-boss glare. “Your family dynamics are irrelevant right now. The child is alive because I happened to check his monitor at two in the morning. If you want to protect him, you stop worrying about who’s offended and start looking at who has motive.”
For three long seconds, the room was so quiet I could hear the faint beep of the oximeter on Leo’s foot.
Then a slow, grim smile touched the corner of Alessio’s mouth—not a warm smile, but the expression of a predator recognizing another hunter.
“You have a remarkable disregard for my reputation, Clara,” he noted softly.
“I’m a pediatric nurse, Mr. Romano. I’ve yelled at chief surgeons and threatened hospital board members. A man with a gun doesn't impress me half as much as an incompetent parent.”
Alessio didn't reply. He turned to Vance. “Take the pacifier clip, the blue bead, and the camera housing down to the lab. I want a full trace on every fingerprint, fiber, and digital signature on that server by noon.”
“Yes, boss,” Vance murmured, packing his gear with practiced speed and slipping out of the room.
When the door clicked shut, Alessio walked over to the crib and looked down at his son. His broad shoulders were tense beneath his black vest.
“Marco thinks I’ve gone soft,” Alessio said quietly, his eyes fixed on Leo’s sleeping face. “Since my wife died, the other families think the Romano syndicate is vulnerable. Marco wants to expand our shipping routes into the port of Montreal. I told him no. Too much federal heat.”
“And a dead heir?” I asked, leaning against the changing table. “How does a dead heir help him?”
“If Leo dies, my sister inherits a third of the estate upon my death,” Alessio said, his jaw clenching. “And Marco manages her portfolio. He would control the syndicate’s liquid assets within six months.”
“Then it’s not just a betrayal,” I said. “It’s a corporate takeover executed with a baby’s life.”
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Alessio’s head snapped toward me, his dark eyes blazing. “And how do you propose we prove it?”
“We don't accuse him yet,” I said, crossing my arms. “We let him think he succeeded in hiding the digital trace. We let him think we’re looking for an outside intruder. And we set a trap.”
