Chapter 2 - THE TORN PHOTOGRAPH
Adrian stared at the screen.
Then slowly turned toward his most trusted man.
Marcus had been the head of DeLuca security for a decade. He was a man made of stone and discipline, someone who had taken a bullet for Adrian three years ago in Chicago.
But right now, Marcus wasn’t looking at his boss.
He was looking at the floor.
"Marcus," Adrian said.
His voice was entirely flat.
It was a tone that did not invite excuses. It demanded survival.
The silence in the dining room felt heavy enough to crush bone. The remaining three men at the table—advisors who had stayed behind—did not breathe.
I stood frozen near the doorway, my left hand throbbing in time with my racing heart. Sofia was tucked slightly behind Adrian’s leg, her small fingers gripping the fabric of his trousers.
"Sir," Marcus started, his voice thick.
"My personal account," Adrian repeated, stepping away from the security monitor. "My password. My encryption. Deleted at exactly ten-forty last night. The same time Emily was attacked in the east hallway."
Marcus swallowed hard.
"It wasn't me, Mr. DeLuca."
Adrian didn't raise his voice. He didn't have to.
"Then who used your terminal?"
"No one used my terminal," Marcus said, finally looking up. The panic in his eyes was real. "The command was sent remotely. From inside the house."
Adrian frowned. "Where?"
"The west wing."
The west wing.
My breath caught in my throat.
The west wing was strictly off-limits to all staff except me. It was where Sofia’s bedroom was. It was where Adrian slept.
"Show me," Adrian commanded.
Marcus rapidly typed on the tablet, bringing up the network logs. He turned the screen toward Adrian.
"The deletion command came from the IP address in your private study, sir. Someone sat at your desk, bypassed the physical firewall, and scrubbed the cameras."
Answer One: Marcus didn't delete the footage himself.
Open Two: Who was in Adrian’s private study, and how did they get his master password?
Adrian’s eyes darkened.
He didn't look at Marcus. He looked at the three advisors still sitting at the dining table.
Victor. Silas. Julian.
Men who practically lived in this house. Men who knew the layout, the schedules, the blind spots.
"None of you leave this room," Adrian said softly.
He turned to me. "Emily. Take Sofia to the kitchen. Stay with her."
"No!" Sofia cried out, her grip tightening on Adrian’s leg. "I want to stay with Emily, but I don't want to leave you."
Adrian knelt down. When he looked at his daughter, the monster vanished. He was just a father.
"I will be right down the hall, piccola," he whispered, kissing her forehead. "Emily will keep you safe. I promise."
I reached out my good right hand.
Sofia took it immediately. Her palm was cold and trembling.
As I led her toward the kitchen, I glanced back. Adrian and Marcus were already moving toward the heavy oak doors of the west wing.
The kitchen was massive, gleaming with stainless steel and marble. I locked the heavy service doors behind us, sliding the deadbolt into place.
I sat Sofia on one of the tall barstools and poured her a glass of milk.
"Are you okay, sweetie?" I asked softly.
She nodded, but her eyes were glued to my injured left wrist.
"Does it hurt?" she asked.
"A little," I lied. "But I'm tough."
Sofia reached into the pocket of her pink cardigan.
"The man who grabbed me dropped something," she whispered.
My heart stopped. "In your room?"
She nodded. "When he heard you walking down the hall, he got scared. He bumped into my dresser and dropped this. I hid it before you came in."
She placed a small, crumpled object on the marble island.
It wasn't a piece of tactical gear. It wasn't a weapon.
It was a piece of paper.
I reached out and unfolded it.
It was a torn photograph. Only half of the image remained.
The moment I saw the face in the picture, all the air left my lungs.
It was a woman in her late twenties, smiling in front of a modest brick house. She was wearing a faded yellow sundress.
I knew that dress.
I knew that smile.
It was my mother.
My mother, who had died fifteen years ago in a hit-and-run accident that the police had never solved.
I stared at the photograph, the edges worn smooth from years of someone holding it.
Why would the man who broke into a mafia boss's mansion drop a picture of my dead mother in his daughter's bedroom?
Answer One: The intruder wasn't a random thief.
Open Two: What was their connection to my family, and why were they trying to silence me?
The kitchen felt suddenly suffocating.
I flipped the torn photograph over.
On the back, written in blue ink, were three words.
She belongs here.
Suddenly, the heavy service doors to the kitchen rattled.
Someone was turning the doorknob from the outside.
I grabbed Sofia and pulled her behind the marble island, covering her mouth with my hand.
"Open the door, Emily," a voice said through the wood.
It wasn't Adrian.
It was Silas. One of the advisors from the dining room.
May you like
The man who had laughed when Adrian asked about my injured hand.
"I know you're in there," Silas said, his voice terrifyingly calm. "And I know what Sofia found."
