Chapter 2 - The Silver Box
The grand ballroom of the Moretti estate was bathed in chandelier light, but the warmth had vanished from the air. Alessandro stood on the raised terrace near the arched marble entryway, the hollow *ping* of his silver spoon against crystal lingering in the silence.
Below him, over two hundred of Chicago’s wealthiest and most lethal figures ceased their conversations. Men with tailored suits hiding shoulder holsters and women adorned in diamonds turned their attention toward their host. Alessandro’s smile remained fixed—a polite, aristocratic mask that masked pure, unadulterated predator instinct.
"My friends," Alessandro said smoothly, his voice carrying effortlessly over the crowd. "A minor domestic issue requires our immediate attention in the service wing. In accordance with family protocol, our private security team has initiated a temporary lockdown of the perimeter. The wine is vintage 1982 Barolo. Please, enjoy yourselves while Marco’s men secure the grounds."
He gave a slight, formal nod and stepped back into the shadows of the mezzanine. The moment the heavy mahogany doors clicked shut behind him, the smile died.
"Seal every exit," Alessandro commanded quietly.
Marco, his towering head of private security, was already tapping on an encrypted tablet. "Gates are locked, Boss. Jamming signals are active within a three-mile radius. Nobody calls out; nobody gets in."
"What about the dessert station?"
"Rosa has wrapped the entire table in forensic plastic. Dr. Reyes secured the frosting sample and Ethan’s plate," Marco replied, his brow furrowed. "Boss... Dr. Reyes confirmed it wasn't just an accidental cross-contamination. It was pure peanut protein extract mixed with concentrated cyanide. If Ethan had touched it to his lips, an EpiPen wouldn't have even bought him time to get to the helicopter."
Alessandro’s hand tightened into a fist until his knuckles turned bloodless. Ethan was eight years old. He was Alessandro’s only son, the sole heir to the Moretti empire, and the only living piece left of Alessandro’s late wife.
"Lily said the man had a silver box," Alessandro murmured, his eyes like polished obsidian. "Who had access to the pantry before the cake was brought out?"
"Only family, lieutenants, and vetted staff," Marco answered uneasily.
Alessandro turned his dark gaze toward the grand staircase. "I want Sophia and the little girl guarded by four armed men. If anyone so much as looks toward the east wing without my authorization, put a bullet in their knee. I am going upstairs."
Up on the third floor, inside Ethan’s heavily fortified bedroom, Sophia sat on the edge of an emerald-green armchair, her arms wrapped tightly around her three-year-old daughter. Sophia was trembling. She had worked as a maid in the Moretti mansion for barely eight months, keeping her head down, dusting antique vases, and praying nobody noticed how quiet she kept her life. She knew what Alessandro Moretti was. The world called him a real estate tycoon, but the blood under his fingernails had built this empire.
"Mama, bad man put dust on the cake," Lily whispered, her large hazel eyes blinking sleepily against Sophia’s chest. Her small sneakers were still dusted with white frosting from where she had kicked Ethan's plate onto the marble floor.
Ethan sat across the room on a leather ottoman, refusing to sit on his bed like an invalid. He was dressed in a miniature charcoal tuxedo, looking remarkably like his father. He held a cold glass of apple juice, his eyes locked on the little girl.
"Lily," Ethan said gently, breaking the silence. His voice was unusually calm for an eight-year-old who had just dodged an assassination attempt. "Was the man wearing gloves?"
Lily scrunched her nose, thinking hard. "No gloves. Shiny ring. Bird ring."
Sophia gasped, clapping a hand over her mouth.
May you like
Ethan’s eyes widened slightly. Before either of them could speak, the heavy reinforced door swung open. Alessandro stepped into the room, his long cashmere coat fluttering behind him.
He looked at Ethan first, doing a rapid, silent inventory of his son
