Chapter 3 - The Face in the Glass
The high-definition monitor above the mahogany desk flickered, casting a pale, clinical blue light across the dark study.
On the screen, the time stamp read 8:58 PM.
The camera angle—discreetly mounted near the crown molding above the fireplace—offered a crystal-clear overhead view of the entire study. For a few agonizing seconds, the room was empty. Then, the heavy oak door unlatched just an inch.
A hand slid around the edge of the wood. A hand wearing a custom diamond tennis bracelet.
My breath hitched. I knew that bracelet. I had seen it flashing under the crystal chandeliers just hours earlier when the upper-class guests had arrived for the seasonal estate gala.
The door pushed open fully, revealing a slender figure in an emerald-green silk gown. Her blonde hair was pinned back in an immaculate French twist, and her face—usually locked in a polite, society-wife smile—was twisted into an expression of cold, clinical calculation.
It was Victoria Moretti.
Alejandro’s newly wedded wife.
On the screen, Victoria walked smoothly across the Persian rug to the private bar cart. She lifted the crystal decanter of 1982 Barolo, poured a generous measure into Alejandro’s favorite crystal glass, and then reached into the small beaded clutch hanging from her wrist. With practiced, unhurried ease, she extracted a tiny glass vial, uncorked it with her teeth, and tipped a colorless, odorless liquid directly into the wine.
She swirled the glass once, set the decanter back down, and turned toward the door—stepping gracefully out of the study just two minutes before I pushed the door open.
In the study, the silence became so absolute you could hear the distant humming of the mansion’s ventilation system.
Dante Cruz stared at the monitor, his jaw tight, his hand instinctively sliding toward the shoulder holster beneath his jacket. The two guards who had tried to block me earlier looked as though they wanted the floor to open up and swallow them whole.
But it was Alejandro’s reaction that terrified me the most.
He didn't shout. He didn't smash the monitor. He simply stood motionless before the screen, his dark eyes fixed on Victoria’s smiling face as she poured the poison. Every muscle in his broad frame locked into a rigid, dangerous stillness—the calm before an apocalyptic storm.
"Boss," Dante murmured cautiously, breaking the silence. "Shall I bring her down from the ballroom?"
"No," Alejandro said. His voice was barely a whisper, but it carried the weight of an avalanche. "Let her enjoy the party. Let her mingle with the politicians and the prosecutors. Let her believe she won."
He turned away from the screen and looked down at me. His expression softened instantly, shedding the terrifying aura of the mafia kingpin and returning to the man who had just looked into the face of a child who saved his life.
He knelt down again, placing his large, warm hand gently on my shoulder.
"Emma," Alejandro said softly, looking deep into my eyes. "You saved my life tonight. Do you understand what that means?"
I shook my head, clutching my pink rabbit backpack tighter. "Does it mean Mama doesn't lose her job?"
A faint, sad smile touched Alejandro’s lips. He reached out and tapped the pink rabbit’s ear. "It means your mother will never have to clean another floor in this city as long as she lives. And you... you will never have to worry about running out of medicine again."
May you like
He stood up, looking over at Dante with a cold, absolute command in his eyes.
"Dante. Secure the east wing. Lock down every exit, every phone line, and every vehicle in the fleet. Nobody leaves this estate tonight until I say so. The trap is set. Now, let’s see how well my dear wife dances."
