Chapter 5 - The Ledger of BloodBy midnight, the manor was dead silent.
Clara sat at a massive mahogany desk in Rico’s private study on the third floor. A green-shaded banker’s lamp cast a warm, focused glow over the leather-bound ledgers spread out before her.
As the daughter of a Chief Financial Officer who had embezzled millions, Clara had inherited her father’s preternatural gift for numbers. She could spot a discrepancy in a balance sheet from across the room.
And right now, looking through the Moretti family’s import-export manifests from the past six months, she saw something that made her blood run cold.
The numbers didn't add up.
Millions of dollars in legitimate shipping revenue from European ports were being funneled through a shell company registered in the Cayman Islands—a shell company that hadn't been set up by Rico, but by his late wife’s family, the Moretti family’s primary corporate partners.
The door to the study clicked open.
Rico walked in, carrying two crystal tumblers filled with amber whiskey. He had removed his jacket, his white dress shirt unbuttoned at the collar, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, revealing the intricate black ink of mafia tattoos winding up his forearms.
He set one glass down on the desk in front of her.
“You should be sleeping,” Rico said quietly, leaning his hip against the edge of the desk. “Leo’s been asleep for four hours.”
Clara didn't touch the whiskey. She pointed a slender finger at the ledger column in front of her.
“You’re being robbed, Mr. Moretti,” Clara said, her voice steady and clinical.
Rico didn't look surprised. He took a slow sip of his whiskey, his ice-blue eyes fixed on her face.
“I know,” Rico replied casually.
Clara blinked, looking up at him in disbelief. “You know? You know that someone is bleeding your shipping syndicate for millions of dollars, and you’re just... letting them do it?”
“For now,” Rico murmured, setting his glass down. “In my world, Clara, you don't kill a snake the moment you see its head. You wait until it slithers out into the open so you can cut off the entire nest.”
He stepped closer, leaning over the desk, placing his hands on either side of her chair, effectively trapping her between his arms and the mahogany wood.
The proximity was suffocating. She could feel the heat radiating off his body, could smell the sharp, clean scent of his soap mixed with expensive bourbon.
“Who is it?” Clara whispered, her heart hammering against her ribs. “Who’s stealing from you?”
“The same people who set up the drive-by that killed my wife,” Rico said, his voice dropping into a dark, lethal whisper. “The Rossi syndicate, working in collusion with a traitor inside my own inner circle.”
Clara’s breath hitched. “Santino Rossi?”
“Santino is just the muscle,” Rico replied, his gaze dropping slowly to her lips before rising back to meet her eyes. “The real mastermind has been sitting at my dinner table for two years.”
Before Clara could process the terrifying implication of his words, the heavy oak doors of the study suddenly burst open.
Dante, the giant head of security, rushed into the room, breathing heavily, clutching a secure satellite phone in his massive hand.
“Boss,” Dante said, his face pale with panic. “We just got word from the perimeter guards. The east gate has been breached.”
Rico straightened up instantly, all traces of vulnerability vanishing, replaced in a millisecond by the cold, calculating apex predator of the underworld.
“How many?” Rico barked, his hand instantly dropping to his holster.
“At least a dozen,” Dante panted. “They’re wearing black tactical gear. They’re not local thugs, boss. They’re professional hit squads. And they’re heading straight for the second-floor nursery.”
Clara felt the color drain entirely from her face.
“Leo,” she choked out, pushing her chair back so hard it crashed into the bookshelves behind her.
Rico didn't hesitate. He pulled his Sig Sauer, checked the magazine with lightning-fast precision, and thrust a smaller backup Glock into Clara’s hands, gripping her fingers around the grip.
“Can you shoot?” Rico demanded, his eyes burning into hers.
“I... I don't know,” Clara stammered, staring at the cold steel weapon.
“Think about my son,” Rico commanded fiercely. “If anyone touches a hair on his head, you pull the trigger. Do you understand me?”
Clara gripped the pistol tighter, her fear instantly hardening into a fierce, protective rage.
May you like
“I understand,” she said.
Rico’s mouth tightened into a hard line. He nodded once, spun on his heel, and sprinted out of the study toward the nursery, plunging headfirst into a warzone.
