Lorenzo Moretti had survived ambushes, betrayals, raids, and men who smiled while planning his funeral. But nothing in his thirty-eight years had prepared him for the sight of a terrified six-year-old girl running barefoot across the marble floor of his own home.
He had come back three hours early — unusual for a man buried for a month in meetings over a business expansion. That morning, his fiancée had complained while fastening a diamond bracelet: six weeks to the wedding, she said, and she shouldn’t need an appointment to see her future husband. He had kissed her forehead and promised dinner. Halfway through an afternoon meeting, he decided dinner wasn’t enough.
On the way home he stopped at a florist and bought two dozen white roses. Valentina loved white roses. Red was too obvious, she had once told him — white meant devotion without desperation.
He dismissed his security detail at the entrance. For once, he wanted to walk into his own home as a man, not as Lorenzo Moretti, the name people lowered their voices to say.
The mansion was strangely quiet. No music, no staff, no sound from the kitchen. Three steps inside, he heard running footsteps — fast, uneven, panicked.
A little girl raced from the east hallway. One shoe was missing. Her dark braid had nearly come undone. Tears streaked both cheeks. Lorenzo recognized her: Lena Bellini, the six-year-old daughter of Sophia Bellini, one of the women who worked in his household. Sophia had served the estate for nearly four years — quiet, dependable, invisible when necessary. Usually Lena hid behind her mother whenever he appeared.
Today she ran directly at him and wrapped both arms around his waist. The roses shook in his hand.
“Please save my mama.”
Those five words erased every thought of dinner, flowers, and wedding plans. He crouched to her eye level. “What happened?”