Chapter 8 - Blood and Blueprints
That afternoon, while Dawson was locked in a secure meeting with his father downstairs in the syndicate’s underground war room, I couldn't shake Franco’s words.
You’re a pawn on a chessboard.
I needed to know the truth. I needed to see the actual contract Vittorio had made me sign, not the summarized version he slid across my coffee table.
Using my clearance as senior estate manager, I bypassed the private service stairs and made my way down to the syndicate’s administrative archives on the sub-level of the building. The air down there smelled of old paper, damp stone, and gun oil.
The archive room was empty, save for a rows of heavy steel filing cabinets.
I quickly found the ledger section labeled Miller, Arthur & Clara.
My hands shook as I pulled out the thick manila folder. I flipped past the bank statements, past the debt collection receipts, until I reached the final page—the master agreement signed by Vittorio Moretti himself.
My breath caught in my throat.
It wasn't a standard employment contract.
It was a blood-debt transfer deed.
And right underneath my father’s name was a memo dated three months before I ever poured ice water over Dawson’s head at the club.
Target acquired, the memo read, signed with Vittorio’s initials. Subject Clara Miller positioned at the VIP lounge. Protocol Handler initiated to break the heir’s volatile isolation.
My blood ran cold.
It wasn't an accident that I worked at that specific club. It wasn't an accident that Dawson happened to be in my section.
Vittorio had engineered the entire thing. He had orchestrated my financial ruin, manufactured my father’s debt, pushed us to the brink of destruction, and set me up to throw ice water over his son just so I would be forced into the penthouse as Dawson’s keeper.
I wasn't a handler. I was a lab rat in a gilded cage designed by a mafia patriarch.
“Looking for something interesting, Clara?”
A deep, velvet voice echoed from the dim shadows of the archive doorway.
I spun around, dropping the folder.
May you like
Dawson stood leaning against the steel doorframe, his hands tucked into his trouser pockets, his stormy eyes staring at me with a heavy, devastating weight. He didn't look angry. He looked heartbroken.
“You knew,” I whispered, my voice trembling as tears stung the backs of my eyes. “You knew from the very beginning.”
