Chapter 3 - THE WOMAN BEHIND THE KITCHEN DOOR
Damiano returned to his estate shortly after noon.
Mia was beside him.
Rafael had doubled security without being asked.
“Where’s Mommy?” Mia asked.
Damiano looked toward the service corridor.
“We’re finding her.”
They found Isabella in the kitchen.
She was scrubbing an enormous copper pot.
Her back was turned.
“Mommy!”
The pot slipped from Isabella’s hands.
She turned.
And when she saw Mia holding Damiano Verrone’s hand, every trace of color vanished from her face.
“Mia?”
Her eyes moved to Damiano.
“What is she doing here?”
“She invited me to school.”
“I told her not to bother you.”
“She didn't bother me.”
Isabella pulled off her gloves.
“You should go, sweetheart.”
Mia frowned.
“But—”
“Now.”
Damiano glanced toward Rafael.
“Take Mia to the library.”
Mia protested until Damiano handed her the red heart.
“Guard this for me.”
That worked.
When they were alone, Isabella lowered her voice.
“You shouldn't be near her.”
Damiano studied her.
“Someone photographed the two of you.”
Fear flashed across her face.
“Where?”
“Outside my estate.”
She looked toward the door.
“Then we have to leave.”
“Who are you hiding from?”
“Nobody.”
“Don't lie to me.”
Her eyes hardened.
“You're in no position to demand honesty from me.”
Damiano stepped closer.
“I knew Sofia.”
Isabella froze.
He saw it.
The truth was there.
“You knew my sister for six months,” Isabella whispered.
“I loved her.”
“You loved an idea of her.”
“I watched her coffin lowered into the ground.”
“And did you ever see her body?”
Damiano said nothing.
Isabella's eyes filled.
“No.”
His voice was barely audible.
“No, I didn't.”
“The coffin was empty.”
The kitchen seemed to tilt beneath him.
“What?”
“Sofia didn't die that night.”
Damiano stared at her.
“Where is she?”
Isabella looked away.
“She died eight months later.”
This time the words landed differently.
Permanently.
Damiano gripped the edge of the counter.
“How?”
“Giving birth.”
His head lifted.
Isabella was crying now.
“No.”
“She was injured when she escaped. Doctors told her pregnancy was dangerous, but she refused to terminate it.”
Damiano’s breathing changed.
Pregnancy.
Birth.
Mia.
He looked toward the library.
Isabella saw him understand.
“Mia is Sofia’s daughter?”
“Yes.”
Damiano could barely ask the next question.
“Who was her father?”
Isabella reached into her apron.
She removed a small chain.
A silver saint medal hung from it.
Damiano recognized it instantly.
He had given it to Sofia four years earlier.
Isabella placed it on the counter.
“You were.”
Silence.
Damiano didn't move.
“My daughter?”
“Yes.”
“Mia is my daughter?”
“Yes.”
His hand trembled.
Damiano Verrone, the man who had controlled entire rooms with a glance, had to grip the counter to remain standing.
“Why didn't you tell me?”
“Because Sofia begged me not to.”
“Why?”
“Because somebody inside your family tried to kill her.”
Damiano’s eyes sharpened.
Isabella continued.
“Sofia discovered money moving through Verrone businesses. Humanitarian shipments being used to hide illegal transactions. She copied records. Three days later, her car went into the river.”
“The Marchettis did that.”
“No.”
Isabella shook her head.
“That's what someone wanted you to believe.”
She walked to a cabinet and removed a flour tin.
From beneath the liner, she pulled out an old photograph.
Sofia.
Pregnant.
Alive.
Standing beside Isabella.
Damiano stared at it.
On the back was a date.
Seven months after Sofia's supposed death.
Beside the date were three words.
DON'T TRUST RAFAEL.
Damiano stopped breathing.
May you like
Isabella whispered:
“Your best friend was the last Verrone man Sofia saw before someone tried to kill her.”
