Chapter 16 - The Woman Behind the Curtain
They moved Emma before sunset.
Not to a hotel.
Not to a Duca property.
Not anywhere Beatrice, Raffaele, Drake, Voss, or their unknown Benefactor would expect.
Sophia chose the place.
A small blue house in Queens owned by her late husband’s aunt, Rosa. It had peeling paint, a chain-link fence, mismatched curtains, and neighbors who watched everything from behind blinds.
“No rich person would hide here,” Sophia said.
Alessandro looked at the narrow porch, the plastic flamingo in the yard, and the elderly woman holding a baseball bat at the front door.
“For once,” he said, “that may be our advantage.”
Aunt Rosa looked him up and down.
“You the billionaire?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“You bring trouble to my house?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“At least you’re honest. Come in before I change my mind.”
For the first time in two days, Sophia almost laughed.
Emma liked Rosa immediately because Rosa gave her warm bread with butter and did not ask questions.
Adrian stayed near the front window.
Matteo checked locks.
Harper stationed two plainclothes officers outside.
Alessandro stood in the kitchen, feeling too large and too polished for the small room.
Sophia noticed.
“You look uncomfortable.”
“I am.”
“Good.”
He looked at her.
She shrugged.
“Now you know how I felt in your mansion.”
He accepted that.
Rosa poured coffee, then stopped.
Everyone stared at the pot.
“Tea,” she said quickly.
They all agreed.
Later, after Emma fell asleep on the couch, Sophia sat at the kitchen table with Alessandro, Adrian, Harper, and Matteo.
The red-ink photograph lay between them.
Harper tapped it.
“The handwriting does not match Beatrice, Drake, Voss, or Raffaele.”
Adrian looked troubled.
“But I’ve seen it before.”
He removed an old postcard from his wallet.
The edges were worn from years of handling.
On the back was the same elegant handwriting.
You survived because I allowed it.
—M
Alessandro stared.
“M?”
Matteo looked as though he might faint.
Sophia turned to him.
“You know.”
The old butler lowered himself into a chair.
“There was one person above Beatrice.”
Alessandro’s voice sharpened.
“Who?”
Matteo’s eyes filled with dread.
“Your grandmother.”
Silence swallowed the kitchen.
Alessandro stared at him.
“My grandmother died when I was twelve.”
Matteo shook his head.
“No, sir. Your grandmother withdrew from public life when you were twelve. The family announced she had died three years later. No body was shown. No funeral open to staff.”
Adrian’s face went gray.
“M.”
Matteo nodded.
“Marcella Duca.”
Alessandro remembered a tall woman in black. Cold perfume. Gloved hands. A voice that could make adults straighten like children.
Marcella Duca.
The matriarch.
The woman who built the family’s ruthless reputation before Lorenzo tried to make it respectable.
“She’s alive?” Alessandro whispered.
Matteo’s voice broke.
“I believe so.”
Sophia looked toward Emma sleeping on the couch.
“And she wants my daughter?”
Adrian nodded slowly.
“She collects leverage. Secrets. People with unusual value.”
Sophia stood.
“No.”
It was one word.
But the room understood it as war.
Alessandro looked at Harper.
“How do we find Marcella?”
Harper’s phone rang before she could answer.
She listened.
Her face tightened.
“What happened?” Alessandro asked.
Harper ended the call.
“Beatrice was transferred from holding to medical observation after claiming chest pain.”
Sophia already knew the next sentence would be terrible.
Harper said it anyway.
“The transport never arrived.”
Alessandro stood.
“What do you mean?”
“The ambulance was found empty under the bridge. Beatrice is gone.”
May you like
On the couch, Emma stirred in her sleep.
Then whispered, “Red nails came back.”
