Chapter 3 - The Interrogation in the Parlor
The grand parlor smelled of aged mahogany, burning cedar, and lingering jasmine. The fire in the hearth crackled softly, casting dancing shadows across the Persian rug.
Elena sat on the edge of a velvet settee, her hands clasped tightly in her lap, her head bowed. Sophie sat beside her, swinging her legs slightly, holding the mutilated ragdoll with its open side spilling cotton like an exposed wound. The child didn't seem scared; she seemed curious, her amber-flecked eyes tracking the movements of the armed guards stationed by the double doors.
The heavy oak doors swung open.
Adrien walked in, his coat off, his shirtsleeves rolled up to his forearms, revealing the sharp, jagged scars of a life carved in blood and concrete. Behind him strode Marcus, carrying a silver briefcase containing technical diagnostic gear.
Elena stood up immediately, bowing her head so low her forehead nearly touched her knees. “Mr. Moretti... please. Whatever she did, whatever was in that toy, I swear to all the saints we didn't know. My mother gave her that doll in Sicily before we came here. We thought it was just stuffed with old rags—”
“Sit down, Elena,” Adrien said. His voice was terrifyingly calm—the calm before a hurricane.
Elena sank back onto the settee, trembling.
Adrien stopped a few feet away from them. He crouched down until he was at eye level with four-year-old Sophie. The little girl didn't flinch. She simply looked back at him, her gaze startlingly mature for someone who hadn't yet started kindergarten.
“Sophie,” Adrien said, his tone softening just a fraction—enough to show he wasn't going to hurt her, but firm enough to demand truth. “Where did you get this doll?”
“Grandma Rosa,” Sophie answered promptly. Her voice was clear, unhesitant. “Before we got on the big boat to come to America. She said it was my guardian.”
“Did Grandma Rosa sew it?”
“No. A man did.” Sophie tilted her head, her dark curls shifting. “A man with a silver watch and a coat that smelled like mint. He gave it to Grandma at the port. He said I had to keep it close because it would help me hear the angels sing.”
Adrien’s jaw tightened. Angels. A frequency jammer disguised as a child’s comfort toy, handed off by an operative at a Sicilian port four years ago. It meant whoever had planted this had been playing a long, patient game—or had anticipated Adrien’s rise to power long before he took the Moretti throne.
“Boss,” Marcus spoke up from the doorway, holding a small digital scanner. “I ran the serial numbers on the microchip components through the black-market tech registry. This isn't local. It’s tied to the Vanguard Syndicate—our primary rivals out of Marseille.”
Marseille. The Vances.
The same network that had tried to tear Declan Voss’s life apart years ago now had its bloody fingers deep inside the Moretti household.
Adrien stood up slowly, a cold, calculation forming behind his dark eyes. They thought they had eyes and ears everywhere. They thought they could use his own children as unwitting intelligence relays.
“Elena,” Adrien said, turning to the maid.
She flinched, expecting her firing, or worse. “Yes, Mr. Moretti?”
“Pack your things tonight.”
Elena’s face crumpled. “Please... where will we go? We have nowhere—.”
“You’re not leaving the estate,” Adrien interrupted smoothly. “You’re moving into the east wing penthouse. Starting tonight, you and Sophie are under my personal protection. Your salary is tripled. And you will never, ever, let that doll out of your sight again.”
May you like
Elena stared at him, stunned. “Protection? But why...?”
“Because,” Adrien said, his gaze shifting back to Sophie, who was now quietly trying to tuck the exposed cotton back into her doll's side with clumsy little fingers, “your daughter just saved my children’s lives. And in this house, debts are always paid in full.”
