Something inside Lorenzo became very still. Not angry — anger was hot. This was colder.
Later, in his study, with Mia perched on his desk eating one of the chocolates his mother kept hidden in a drawer, he asked how long the “bad lady” had frightened Mommy. “Three days?” No. “Three weeks?” No. She pressed three tiny fingers against his chest. “Three months?” Mia nodded, then leaned into him. He held her carefully. He had never been comfortable around children. Mia had apparently decided this was irrelevant.
He reached for the telephone. “Rocco.” His oldest lieutenant answered immediately. “My study. Now.” Four minutes later Rocco stood before him — six-foot-two, gray at the temples, thirty years of loyalty between their families. “I want everything,” Lorenzo said. “About?” “Vivien. Visitors. Calls. Bank records. Employees she requested. Contractors. Drivers. Jewelry purchases. Messages. And every time she has been alone with Elena or Mia during the last four months.” Rocco looked toward Mia. He understood. “Quietly?” “Very.”
That evening Vivien descended the staircase wearing pale green silk — beautiful, elegant, perfect. She smiled at him. He smiled back. She offered her hand. He kissed it. “You look tired, darling.” “Long day.” She touched his face. He almost recoiled. Instead, he kissed her cheek. Because Vivien had made one mistake: she thought the most dangerous person in the Duca mansion was the man sitting at the head of the table. It wasn’t. It was a three-year-old girl who knew exactly where to bring him when her mother was afraid. And Vivien had just given that child a secret. Now he intended to find out every secret Vivien had been keeping from him.
The Laundry Reassignment
Elena avoided him the next morning — which alone told him something. Normally she brought his mother’s breakfast tray to the west sitting room at eight. That morning another maid came. “Where’s Elena?” The maid froze. “Mrs. Fairchild reassigned her.” Vivien. Of course. “Where?” “Laundry.”
He found Elena folding sheets. She nearly dropped one when he entered. He asked why she hadn’t brought Mother breakfast; she said Miss Fairchild changed the schedule, no reason — a lie. He stepped closer. “Has Vivien threatened you?” Her entire body went still. Too direct; he’d made a mistake. “What?” “Answer.” “No.” Another lie. Good — now he knew Mia had understood correctly.
He changed tactics, asking about Mia, mentioning the chocolate. That almost made Elena smile. Almost. Then she grew serious: “Mr. Duca, Mia shouldn’t bother you.” “She didn’t.” “She’s three.” “I noticed.” “She becomes attached to people.” The warning beneath the words was obvious: don’t make promises to her unless you intend to keep them. He nodded. “So do adults.”
At noon, Rocco brought the first results. Vivien had spent eighty-seven thousand dollars in three months through an account Lorenzo had never seen. Not jewelry, not clothes — payments. Four recipients: one security technician, one private investigator, one former Duca employee — and a man named Gabriel Serra. Lorenzo knew that name. Everyone in their world did. Gabriel Serra worked for the Marcelli family, their oldest rival. His fiancée had been secretly paying one of his enemies.