Chapter 3 - The Traitor in the Room
“Bianca failed. Kill him tonight, Marco.”
The words burned into my retinas. I instinctively shoved Isabella behind me, stepping between the little girl and the head of security.
Marco froze. The massive, broad-shouldered man who had guarded the Falcone family for a decade stared at the burner phone in Adriano’s hand. For a split second, the ballroom was dead silent. Then, five of Adriano’s loyal guards unholstered their weapons, aiming them directly at Marco’s chest.
“Boss,” Marco said, holding his hands up slowly. Sweat beaded on his forehead. “I don’t know what that is. I swear on my mother’s life, I have never spoken to Elena.”
Adriano didn’t draw his weapon. He just stared at the man who had carried his wife’s coffin alongside him. “Drop your gun, Marco.”
“Adriano, it’s a setup,” Marco pleaded, slowly reaching for his holster with two fingers and letting his firearm clatter to the marble floor. “If Elena wanted me to kill you, she wouldn’t text Bianca’s phone. She’s trying to strip you of your security so she can get inside.”
The logic was flawless. But the seed of doubt was already planted. Adriano kicked Marco’s gun away. “Put him in the wine cellar. Until I know what’s happening, trust no one.”
As Marco was led away, Adriano turned to me. “Get Isabella upstairs. Now.”
I nodded, scooping the nine-year-old into my arms. She buried her face in my neck, trembling like a leaf. I ran up the grand staircase, down the long corridor to the west wing, and burst into her bedroom. I slammed the heavy oak door shut, throwing the deadbolt and sliding the brass chain into place.
The room was quiet. I set Isabella down on her pink bedspread, my hands shaking.
“It’s okay, Bella,” I signed with trembling fingers. “We are locked in. Safe.”
She didn’t look convinced. She crawled to the head of her bed and reached under her pillows. She pulled out a small, flat object wrapped in a tattered gray t-shirt.
She unwrapped it. It was a sleek, black tablet.
I frowned. Isabella wasn’t allowed to have internet devices in her room after 8 PM. “Where did you get that?” I signed.
Isabella looked down. “Mommy sent it in the mail. Inside a puzzle box. She talks to me at night.”
My blood ran cold. Elena had been inside this house, inside this child’s mind, for months. I reached for the tablet, intending to give it to Adriano immediately. But as my fingers brushed the screen, it lit up.
A live video feed connected.
Elena Falcone stared back at me. She looked older, harsher, her dark eyes devoid of the warmth I’d seen in the photographs downstairs.
“Hello, Grace,” Elena’s voice filtered through the tablet’s small speaker.
I froze, shielding Isabella from the screen. “What do you want?”
Elena smiled, a cold, calculated expression. “Bianca was supposed to handle the delivery quietly. But since you ruined that, I need to make a trade.”
“I’m not trading Isabella to a monster,” I snapped.
“I don’t want my daughter,” Elena said flatly, her words sending a shockwave of nausea through me. “She’s deaf and useless to my new partners. I want the wooden box she keeps her drawings in. Bring it to the garage.”
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“No,” I said.
Elena leaned closer to the camera. “Grace. Your father is in Room 412 at St. Jude’s Hospital. My men are standing outside his door. Bring me the box, or I’ll have them turn off his life support.”
