Chapter 3 - The House With No Guns at DinnerThree days later, Sofia made her first rule.
Every elevator was locked.
Every stairwell was guarded.
Security footage from the previous twelve hours was being copied onto three separate encrypted servers while Vincent’s people questioned everyone who had entered the building.
Nobody complained.
At least, nobody complained loudly.
Vincent stood in the kitchen wearing the same black shirt from the night before, sleeves rolled to his elbows, while his private physician examined Maria Alvarez in the guest wing.
Sofia sat at the enormous marble island eating pancakes.
She had no idea twenty armed men were searching the building.
That was intentional.
“More blueberries,” she announced.
Vincent looked at the housekeeper.
Mrs. Donnelly immediately reached for the bowl.
Sofia shook her head.
“Him.”
The kitchen became silent.
Vincent stared at her.
“You want me to put blueberries on your pancakes?”
“Yes.”
Every employee suddenly found something fascinating to look at elsewhere.
Vincent picked up the bowl.
“How many?”
Sofia considered the question seriously.
“Seven.”
Vincent placed seven blueberries on the pancakes.
She counted them.
Then nodded.
“Good job.”
Marco Russo, Vincent’s security chief, entered at exactly that moment.
He had been working for Vincent for fourteen years.
He had seen Vincent interrogate corrupt politicians, outmaneuver rival families, and survive three assassination attempts.
He had never seen Vincent Moretti receive praise for blueberry distribution.
Marco coughed.
Vincent gave him a look.
“Office.”
Sofia raised one finger.
“He has to eat breakfast.”
Marco nearly smiled.
“I already ate, sweetheart.”
“Okay.”
Vincent followed Marco into the study.
The door closed.
“What do we know?”
Marco handed him a tablet.
“Maria was given zolpidem.”
“Sleeping medication?”
“Enough to knock out an adult for hours. Doctor says she’ll recover.”
“Where did it come from?”
“Tea.”
Vincent’s jaw tightened.
“Kitchen?”
“Maybe.”
“Maybe isn’t an answer.”
“We’re working on it.”
Marco swiped the screen.
“Camera outside Sofia’s hallway lost six minutes of footage at 1:47.”
Vincent looked up.
“Only that camera?”
“Yes.”
“So someone knew the system.”
“That’s what I’m thinking.”
Vincent paced toward the window.
The city stretched beneath him.
For years, he had believed height gave him safety.
Now the penthouse felt exposed.
“Who knew Maria’s routine?”
“House staff. Security. You. Me. A few others.”
“And family.”
Marco hesitated.
“Yes.”
Vincent turned.
“Say what you mean.”
“Your brother came by yesterday.”
Vincent’s expression hardened.
“Adrian?”
“He was here from six until eight.”
“For dinner.”
“I know.”
Vincent’s younger brother, Adrian Moretti, was charming where Vincent was intimidating.
He wore expensive suits, smiled easily, donated money publicly, and preferred solving problems with influence rather than fear.
For years, newspapers had called Adrian “the acceptable Moretti.”
Vincent had never minded.
Until now.
“Adrian wouldn’t hurt a child.”
Marco said nothing.
Vincent noticed.
“What?”
“I didn’t say he would.”
“But?”
“But somebody did something last night.”
Vincent stared at him.
Marco lowered his voice.
“There’s more.”
He pulled up another file.
“Isabella called this building the night she died.”
Vincent froze.
“What?”
“Three times.”
“I never received those calls.”
“I know.”
“Who answered?”
“Nobody.”
Marco showed him the records.
“The calls were intercepted through the private switchboard.”
Vincent felt anger rise with terrifying calm.
“When did you find this?”
“An hour ago.”
“Why didn’t we know earlier?”
“Because the logs were altered.”
“By whom?”
“We don’t know.”
Vincent walked toward his desk.
Isabella Romano had known something before she died.
Something important enough to call him three times.
And then she had been killed.
Now someone had drugged Sofia’s nanny.
The pieces were no longer random.
They were connected.
“How did Isabella’s car crash happen?”
“Police report says mechanical failure.”
“I didn’t ask what the police report says.”
Marco understood.
“We reopen everything.”
“Quietly.”
“Yes.”
Vincent’s study door opened.
Both men turned.
Sofia stood there holding Buttons.
Vincent frowned.
“Where’s Mrs. Donnelly?”
“Bathroom.”
“You don’t walk around alone.”
“Why?”
Vincent looked at Marco.
Marco suddenly became deeply interested in his tablet.
Vincent crouched.
“Because this place is big.”
“I know the way.”
“That isn’t the point.”
“What’s the point?”
Vincent discovered something unexpected.
Threatening adults was considerably easier than explaining danger to three-year-olds.
He chose carefully.
“There are people in the city who don’t like me.”
Sofia thought.
“Because you’re mean?”
Marco coughed again.
Vincent’s eyes narrowed.
“Sometimes.”
“My mommy said mean people are usually sad.”
Vincent stared at her.
“I’m not sad.”
Sofia tilted her head.
“You look sad.”
Nobody had spoken to Vincent like that in years.
She walked closer.
“Are you talking about Mommy?”
Vincent’s pulse changed.
“Why?”
“I heard her name.”
Marco and Vincent exchanged a glance.
Vincent gestured to the sofa.
“Come here.”
Sofia climbed onto it.
Vincent sat across from her.
“Sofia, did your mother ever tell you she was scared?”
Sofia hugged Buttons.
“Sometimes.”
“Of what?”
“The bad man.”
The room went completely still.
Vincent leaned forward.
“What bad man?”
Sofia whispered, “The man with the gold snake.”
Marco’s eyes snapped toward Vincent.
“What did you say?”
“The gold snake.”
Vincent kept his voice calm.
“Where did you see it?”
“On his hand.”
“A ring?”
She nodded.
“He came to our apartment.”
“When?”
“Before Mommy went to heaven.”
Vincent hated the words.
“What did he say?”
Sofia frowned, trying to remember.
“He yelled.”
“About what?”
“Mommy said she wouldn’t give him the papers.”
Marco moved closer.
“What papers?”
Sofia shrugged.
Then she looked at Vincent.
“She made me hide.”
“Where?”
“In the closet.”
“And then?”
“The man said if Mommy talked to you, everybody would be sorry.”
Vincent’s blood went cold.
“Did you see his face?”
Sofia shook her head.
“I saw his shoes.”
“What kind?”
“Shiny.”
That described half of Manhattan.
Vincent forced himself to stay calm.
“The snake. What did it look like?”
Sofia pointed at Marco’s tablet.
“Can I draw?”
Marco immediately handed it over.
Sofia used her finger.
A curved shape.
Two little lines.
A circle.
Then something resembling a crown above it.
Marco stared at the symbol.
His face changed.
Vincent saw it.
“You recognize it.”
Marco did not answer immediately.
“Marco.”
The security chief swallowed.
“There’s a private club in Brooklyn. Old organization. Their symbol is a snake wrapped around a crown.”
Vincent stood.
“What organization?”
“The Valenti crew.”
Vincent’s expression darkened.
Luca Valenti controlled half the illegal gambling operations in Brooklyn.
He and Vincent had maintained an uneasy peace for eight years.
A peace built entirely on mutual benefit.
Vincent’s phone rang.
He answered.
“Moretti.”
A man’s voice spoke.
“Vincent.”
Vincent recognized Luca instantly.
Interesting.
“Luca.”
“I hear there’s trouble at your building.”
Vincent looked at Marco.
Nobody outside should know that.
“What kind of trouble?”
Luca laughed softly.
“Don’t insult me.”
Vincent’s eyes became cold.
“What do you want?”
“Lunch.”
“No.”
“You’ll want this meeting.”
“Why?”
A pause.
“Because Isabella Romano stole something before she died.”
Vincent’s grip tightened around the phone.
“What?”
“Something people are willing to kill for.”
Vincent stared at Sofia.
She had resumed drawing.
A house now.
A yellow sun.
A stick figure with curly hair.
And beside it, another figure far taller.
Vincent.
Luca continued.
“Bring the girl.”
Vincent’s voice became deadly.
“Say that again.”
“Relax.”
“No.”
“I need to know what she knows.”
“You will never be in the same room with her.”
“Then people will keep coming.”
Vincent’s jaw clenched.
“Was last night you?”
Silence.
Then Luca said, “If I wanted someone inside your home, Vincent, you wouldn’t find sleeping pills.”
The call ended.
Vincent lowered the phone.
Marco spoke first.
“You believe him?”
“No.”
But Vincent understood one thing.
Someone knew Sofia was important.
Someone believed she had information.
And whatever Isabella had taken—or hidden—had just made her daughter a target.
Sofia looked up from the tablet.
“Mr. Vincent?”
“Yes?”
She showed him the drawing.
It was crude and bright.
Three figures stood beneath a yellow sun.
Sofia.
Buttons.
Vincent.
Across the top, she had attempted to write a word.
HOME.
The H was backwards.
Vincent stared at it longer than necessary.
Then Marco said quietly, “What are we doing?”
Vincent looked toward the windows.
His answer was immediate.
“We find out what Isabella knew.”
“And Sofia?”
Vincent looked at the little girl.
“No one gets near her.”
Marco nodded.
Vincent’s voice lowered.
“Not Luca.”
A beat.
“Not Adrian.”
Another.
“Not anyone.”
In that moment, Marco understood something perhaps before Vincent did.
This was no longer about protecting a witness.
May you like
It was personal.
And anyone who tried to reach Sofia Romano would discover exactly what happened when the most feared man in New York finally found something he was afraid to lose.
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