Chapter 3 - THE WOLF IN SHEEP'S CLOTHING
The next morning, the Valenti mansion felt different. Every footstep echoing on the marble floor sounded like a threat. Every member of the household staff—from Mrs. Reyes, the stern head housekeeper, to Marcus, the towering head of security—looked like a suspect.
I kept Mia close to me in our small, windowless quarters in the basement annex. I gave her a fresh box of crayons and a coloring book, trying to distract her, but my mind was racing. Who in this house had the power to sabotage a car, steal millions from the syndicate, and betray Dante Valenti without raising suspicion?
At ten o'clock, a soft knock came at our door.
I opened it a crack, my pulse hammering in my throat. It was Marcus, the head of security. His broad shoulders filled the doorway, his face expressionless as always, clad in a crisp black suit with a gold tie clip.
"Boss wants the west wing polished by noon," Marcus said, his voice flat. "He specifically asked for you, Lena. Said you're the only one who cleans the antique mahogany correctly."
"O-okay," I stammered, keeping my body positioned so he couldn't see Mia playing on the floor behind me. "I'll be right up."
Marcus nodded once and turned away. As he walked down the corridor, the sunlight from the high hallway windows caught his right hand resting near his holster.
And there it was.
Flashed for barely a second against the morning light: a heavy, vintage signet ring etched with a crest of intertwined serpents.
The exact ring from Mia's drawing.
My breath caught in my throat. Marcus. Head of security. The man Dante trusted with his life, the one person authorized to review security footage and patrol the garage at all hours. He wasn't just a guard; he was the leak. He was the traitor who had sabotaged the car three years ago, and he was currently selling Dante's operations to the highest bidder.
When I arrived at the west wing to clean, my hands shook so badly I could barely hold the dusting cloth. Dante was waiting for me inside his private study, the heavy oak door locked tight.
"You're shaking," Dante noted immediately, pouring two cups of black coffee from a silver pot. He didn't offer me one, but pushed it across the mahogany desk nonetheless.
"I saw him," I gasped, setting the cleaning bucket down with a loud clatter. "Marcus. He came to the door this morning. I saw the ring on his hand, Mr. Valenti. Exactly like the one Mia drew."
Dante froze. The coffee cup in his hand stopped mid-air. The temperature in the room plummeted. For a long, terrifying moment, he didn't breathe. Marcus had been by his side for ten years. Marcus had taken a bullet for him in Palermo.
"Are you certain?" Dante's voice was barely a whisper, laced with a dangerous, suppressed fury.
"Positive," I said, tears stinging my eyes. "He's wearing it right now. If he knows what Mia drew, he'll come after us. We have to get out of here."
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Dante set the cup down slowly. A dark, chilling smile touched the corners of his lips—not a smile of joy, but the smile of a predator who had finally cornered his prey.
"No, Lena," Dante said softly, walking over to the heavy iron safe hidden behind a painting of his ancestors. "We aren't running. We are going to set a trap. And Marcus is going to walk right into it."
