Chapter 3 - The Morning AuditI woke up at 9:00 AM to the warm, brilliant sunlight streaming through floor-to-ceiling panoramic glass windows overlooking the sparkling, dark blue Atlantic Ocean.
I was lying in a massive king-sized bed wrapped in eight-hundred-thread-count Egyptian cotton sheets inside a master guest suite that looked like it belonged in a luxury estate magazine.
On the mahogany nightstand rested a fresh cup of steaming black coffee, a small glass bottle of orange juice, a plate of warm croissants, and a small, white paper box from a high-end pharmacy.
Beside the breakfast tray sat a simple, hand-written card in sharp, immaculate cursive:
The pharmacy box contains antiseptics for your foot. Fresh clothes are in the wardrobe. Breakfast is at nine-thirty in the primary library.
— M.
I sat up, throwing off the duvet, looking down at my feet. Someone—presumably an estate nurse while I was asleep—had carefully washed the glass dust from my heels and wrapped my left ankle in a light compression bandage.
On the velvet chair near the window sat a brand-new set of clothes: a soft cream cashmere sweater, dark tailored trousers, and a pair of leather flat shoes—all cut to my exact measurements.
My stomach let out a loud, traitorous rumble at the scent of the fresh croissants.
"Unbelievable," I muttered to myself, rubbing my face. "Kidnapped by a mob boss, and he leaves a five-star room service review."
Twenty minutes later, washed, dressed in the cashmere sweater, and holding my cup of black coffee, I pushed open the heavy oak double doors of the estate library.
The room was breathtaking—two stories tall, lined with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves holding thousands of vintage volumes, featuring a grand stone fireplace blazing with warm cedar logs.
Sitting behind a massive walnut desk near the window was Matteo Conti.
He had traded his ruined charcoal suit for a crisp white dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his forearms, displaying dark, intricate Italian line-work tattoos covering his left wrist and forearm. His dark hair was neatly combed back, a small white butterfly bandage covering the nick along his sharp jawline.
Sitting across from him was Leo Mercer, reviewing thick stacks of financial ledgers.
When I stepped into the library, both men stopped speaking instantly.
Leo stood up from his leather armchair, giving me a short, respectful nod—a staggering contrast to his hostile posture from the nightclub nine hours ago.
"Miss Miller," Leo acknowledged politely. "Good morning."
I looked at Leo, then looked at Matteo sitting behind the desk.
"Is my mother safe?" I demanded cleanly, every trace of exhaustion gone, my voice sharp and direct as I walked straight up to the walnut desk.
Matteo set his gold pen down, leaning back in his executive chair, looking at me with a calm, unbothered intensity.
"Your mother was transferred to a private, secure VIP wing at the Brigham & Women's Medical Center in Boston three hours ago, Maya," Matteo stated smoothly. "She has been assigned a team of three senior neurologists. Her care fees for the next five years have been paid in full."
My heart took a violent, shuddering leap into my throat. My hands tightened around my coffee cup so hard the ceramic groaned.
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"You paid her fees...?" I gasped out, my voice cracking into sharp, disbelief-filled fragments. "Matteo... that's tens of thousands of dollars! Why would you do that?!"
"Because," Matteo replied, standing up slowly from his chair, walking around the desk until he stood two feet from me, his gray eyes locking onto mine with an absolute weight, "I do not leave innocent people in debt to cold-blooded killers."
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