Chapter 7 - The Cleaning of the House
Before Matteo could react, Victor Hale stepped out onto the terrace.
Beside Victor stood four of Alessandro’s most trusted, senior enforcers—men who had served the family for decades and whose loyalty to Alessandro was absolute. They had heard every word of Matteo's confession through the open glass doors.
Their faces were grim, filled with disgusted rage.
"Boss," Victor said, holding a heavy pair of zip-ties. "What are your orders?"
Matteo’s bitter arrogance vanished in an instant, replaced by raw, frantic terror as he looked at the four armed soldiers surrounding him.
"Alessandro! Wait!" Matteo sobbed, crawling toward Alessandro's boots, grabbing at his trousers. "We're blood! We're family! Your father raised me! You can't do this!"
Alessandro looked down at his cousin with eyes as cold and unyielding as granite.
"Family doesn't murder children, Matteo," Alessandro said flatly. "You stopped being my blood the moment you pressed that detonator on the coastal road."
Alessandro turned his back on his cousin.
"Take him to the cellar under Warehouse 9," Alessandro ordered Victor. "Find out every lieutenant, every corrupt officer, and every member of the Caruso family who was involved in the hit. Once you have every name..."
Alessandro paused, looking up at the gray sky as rain washed over his face.
"...clean the house."
"Understood, Don Moretti," Victor replied smoothly.
The four enforcers dragged the screaming, sobbing Matteo Rossi across the muddy lawn, throwing him into the back of a blacked-out SUV waiting at the side entrance.
The terrace went quiet once more, save for the sound of the rain tapping against the glass doors.
Alessandro stood in the center of the terrace for a long time. The heavy weight that had rested on his shoulders for three years had not vanished, but the suffocating darkness had cleared, revealing a sharp, blinding purpose.
He walked down the terrace steps and walked toward the servants' entrance at the side of the mansion.
He opened the heavy wooden door and stepped into the warm, brightly lit kitchen.
Sophia Carter was standing near the industrial sink, folding clean dish towels. When she saw Alessandro walk in—drenched in rain, his suit ruined, but his face holding an expression of profound, awakened clarity—she stopped.
Beside the kitchen table, little Emma was sitting on a wooden stool, happily coloring a picture of a giant yellow sunflower with a bright red crayon.
Alessandro walked straight toward the child.
He stopped beside her stool, pulled a clean handkerchief from his pocket, and gently wiped a stray mark of red crayon from Emma’s small hand.
Emma looked up at him, her dark eyes sparkling with innocence.
"Did you talk to the loud man, Mr. Moretti?" she asked softly.
Sophia gasped, dropping her dish towel. "Emma! What did I tell you about bothering—"
"It's alright, Sophia," Alessandro said gently, holding up his hand to quiet the mother.
He looked down at Emma, offering her a rare, genuine smile—the first true smile to grace his lips in three long years.
"Yes, Emma," Alessandro whispered. "I talked to him. He won't ever bother anyone again."
Emma smiled brightly, picking up her yellow crayon. "Arya said thank you. She said her daddy is brave."
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Alessandro felt a warm tear slip down his cheek, blending with the rainwater on his face. He reached out, gently touching the child’s soft cheek.
"Tell her," Alessandro choked out softly, "that her daddy loves her. Always."
