Chapter 5 - The Confession in the Library
The Romano library smelled of old leather, pipe tobacco, and bourbon.
The floor-to-ceiling bookshelves held first editions of political philosophy, military history, and Italian literature. A roaring fire crackled in the massive limestone hearth, casting flickering orange light across the Persian rugs.
Alessio sat behind a massive mahogany desk. Standing across from him, leaning casually against the edge of the desk with a glass of scotch in his hand, was a tall, sharp-featured man in a charcoal suit.
Marco Vance.
He had sandy hair combed straight back, wire-rimmed glasses that caught the firelight, and the relaxed, arrogant posture of a man who believed he was the smartest person in any room.
As I walked in, Marco turned his head, looking me up and down with polite curiosity.
“Ah,” Marco smiled, raising his glass slightly. “The heroic nurse. I hear you saved my little nephew’s life last night. A commendable performance. Though I’m told you’re causing quite a stir with security.”
I didn't answer him. I walked over to stand beside Alessio’s desk, keeping my distance.
Alessio didn't look at Marco. His dark eyes remained fixed on a silver pen rolling between his fingers.
“Clara found something in the nursery just now,” Alessio said quietly, his voice dangerously low.
Marco chuckled, taking a sip of his scotch. “Let me guess. Another blue bead? Honestly, Alessio, if the girl is seeing magical beads under every bed, maybe we should check her credentials. County hospitals don't always hire the most stable—ah.”
Marco stopped talking.
Because Alessio had opened the top drawer of his desk, pulled out the plastic evidence bag containing Elena’s silver-wrapped package, and dropped it onto the wood between them.
“Your wife stopped by the nursery twenty minutes ago,” Alessio said.
Marco’s smile faltered for a fraction of a second, then quickly returned. “Elena? Yes, she mentioned she wanted to drop off a teething toy. Is that a crime now?”
“She brought a silver rattle,” Alessio continued, his voice devoid of all emotion. “And she was remarkably defensive about the music box.”
Marco set his glass down. The ice clinked sharply against the crystal.
“Alessio, listen to yourself,” Marco said, spreading his hands in a gesture of absolute reason. “You’re letting a hired nurse turn you against your own family. Elena was grieving her sister when that music box was broken. If she touched it years ago, maybe a bead fell into her pocket. Are we really launching an internal investigation over a piece of costume jewelry?”
“It wasn't in her pocket,” I said.
Marco turned his sharp gaze toward me for the first time. “And you would know this how, nurse? Were you rifling through my wife’s personal belongings?”
“I’m trained to observe micro-expressions, Mr. Vance,” I said, stepping forward. “When I mentioned the music box to your wife, her pupils dilated, her heart rate visibly spiked against her collarbone, and her immediate defense wasn't confusion—it was deflection. She knew exactly what a blue enamel bead from that specific mechanism represented before I even described its dimensions.”
Marco’s expression hardened into ice. He looked back at Alessio.
“You’re going to take the word of a hired medical employee over your own sister?”
Alessio stood up.
He didn't tower over Marco in height, but the sheer, crushing weight of his presence filled the library until the air felt thin.
“Vance,” Alessio said softly.
“What?”
“Vance Logistics, your shell corporation in the Cayman Islands,” Alessio said, reciting the words as if reading a death sentence. “The one you used to siphon four million dollars from the Sicilian shipping syndicates over the past eighteen months.”
Marco’s face drained of color. The sophisticated, arrogant mask shattered completely, leaving behind a sweating, terrified man.
“That... that’s an audit error,” Marco stammered, taking a half-step back. “The accountants in Palermo—”
“The accountants in Palermo didn't find it,” Alessio interrupted, walking slowly around the desk. “Vance, my tech guy, pulled the encrypted logs from your private laptop while you were eating breakfast this morning. You didn't just steal money, Marco. You sold our distribution routes to the Russian syndicate in Chicago.”
Marco’s eyes darted toward the library doors.
Dominic was standing right there, blocking the exit like a granite statue.
“And when I refused to expand into Montreal,” Alessio continued, closing the distance until he was inches from Marco’s face, “you realized that as long as I had a son, my priorities wouldn't shift toward your reckless expansion. So you used your wife to steal a bead from the vault, hacked the nursery camera to loop the feed, and tried to suffocate a four-month-old infant in his crib.”
Marco swallowed hard, his throat working convulsively. He looked like a cornered animal.
“You can’t prove the suffocation part,” Marco whispered, his voice trembling. “The camera feed was wiped. There’s no physical evidence linking me to the nursery last night.”
“No?”
I reached into my pocket and pulled out a small, sterile cotton swab in a plastic tube.
“When Mrs. Marco left the nursery, she didn't realize she dropped a single synthetic cashmere fiber from her green dress right beside the crib,” I said calmly. “And when Vance dusted the camera casing this morning, he lifted a partial latent thumbprint from the interior circuit board—a print that matched the federal database record you submitted when you renewed your concealed carry permit three years ago.”
Marco stared at the swab in my hand as if it were a loaded gun.
Then, with a sudden, desperate lurch, he lunged for the heavy bronze fireplace poker resting beside the hearth.
He didn't even touch it.
Before Marco’s fingers grazed the metal, Dominic crossed the room with terrifying speed, grabbed Marco by the throat, and slammed him down onto the Persian rug with a dull, sickening thud.
The scotch glass shattered against the edge of the desk, amber liquid spilling across the papers like blood.
Marco thrashed beneath Dominic’s knee, gasping for air.
Alessio looked down at him without blinking.
“Dominic,” Alessio said quietly.
“Boss?”
“Take him to the lower warehouse. Call the Sicilian council. Tell them we have a confession regarding the Montreal shipments and the internal breach.”
“Understood.”
“And Dominic?”
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“Yes, boss?”
“Make sure Elena leaves the estate tonight. Send her to her family in Boston. If she ever steps foot in Illinois again, she won't leave in a car.”
