She looked down at her stomach.
"Whether the baby is healthy."
His face softened.
"Then that's what matters."
He placed his palm gently against her stomach.
The baby moved.
Alessandro smiled.
It was a small expression, almost private.
"He's impatient," he murmured.
"Or she is."
"Then she'll be the first person in this family who can tell me what to do."
Isabella laughed.
For a moment, the world felt uncomplicated.
Then his phone vibrated.
He glanced at the screen.
The smile disappeared.
"Marco?"
He answered.
"Tell me."
A pause.
"When?"
Another pause.
"Did anyone see the vehicle?"
Isabella watched his face.
"Send two men to the apartment. Nobody touches anything until I arrive."
He ended the call.
"What happened?" she asked.
"A security issue."
"Alessandro."
He placed the phone inside his jacket.
"I'll handle it."
She looked at him for a long moment.
"That's what you always say."
He had no reply.
***
The Moretti Foundation gala was being held at the top floor of the Bellgrave Hotel, a private luxury property overlooking Central Park.
The ballroom had been decorated with white roses, black candles, and arrangements of crystal that reflected the chandeliers overhead.
Nearly two hundred guests had attended.
Businessmen stood beside politicians. Actors spoke with bankers. Charitable organizations displayed photographs of schools and hospitals funded by the foundation.
Every guest had been carefully selected.
Alessandro understood that a room full of wealthy people was not necessarily a room full of friends.
Some had come because they admired him.
Others wanted access to his money.
A few had come because refusing an invitation from a Moretti could create problems.
His security team occupied discreet positions throughout the ballroom.
Marco Bellini stood near the entrance.
At forty-six, Marco had served the family for almost twenty years. He was broad-shouldered, quiet, and difficult to surprise.
He approached Alessandro as the couple entered.
"Everything is ready."
Alessandro nodded.
"Any problems?"
"One."
"What?"
"Someone accessed the guest list this afternoon."
"Who?"
"We're checking."
"That isn't an answer."
Marco lowered his voice.
"The access came from an internal terminal."
Alessandro looked toward the ballroom.
"Which department?"
"Foundation administration."
He glanced at Isabella.
She was greeting an elderly woman who had donated money to the hospital's maternity ward.
"Not here," he said.
Marco understood.
He stepped away.
Alessandro spent the next twenty minutes greeting guests.
He shook hands, accepted congratulations, and listened to speeches about the future of the foundation.
He smiled when appropriate.
But his attention remained divided.
He was thinking about the call from Marco.
He was thinking about the photograph that had arrived that morning.
And he was thinking about the name written on its back.
Elena Rossi.
He had not heard that name in years.
He had believed she had left New York permanently.
He had believed she was safe.
He had been wrong.
***
Victoria Hale arrived shortly after nine.
She had been invited by the foundation's legal adviser, though nobody had told Alessandro.
Victoria had once worked as an investigative journalist. Five years earlier, she had written a series of articles examining the relationship between private security companies and criminal organizations.
One of those investigations had nearly destroyed the Moretti family's political protection.
Her brother had disappeared shortly afterward.
The police had called it a voluntary departure.
Victoria had never believed them.
For years, she had searched for evidence connecting Alessandro to the disappearance.
She had found bank transfers, private clinic records, falsified identities, and a network of companies that existed only on paper.
But the deeper she went, the more she realized that the story was larger than one missing man.
There was a secret hidden inside the Moretti family.
And Elena Rossi was the only person who knew the entire truth.
Victoria approached the champagne table.
She noticed a waiter standing near the private corridor.
He was younger than the other staff.
His posture was stiff.
His eyes moved too often.
She recognized him.
Not by his face, but by the small tattoo visible beneath his glove.
A black crown.
The symbol of a criminal group that had once worked for Alessandro's father.
Victoria's stomach tightened.
She had not expected them to move tonight.
She had expected a confrontation, perhaps a threat.
Not an assassination attempt.
She watched the waiter approach Isabella.
Before she could intervene, Alessandro noticed him.
Everything happened quickly.
The glass fell.
The guards moved.
And the ballroom became silent.
Victoria realized that Alessandro had recognized the danger before she had.
That frightened her more than the waiter.
Because it meant he already knew someone was coming for his wife.
***
In the private office behind the ballroom, Alessandro stood across from the captured waiter.
The man's name was Daniel Cross.
He was twenty-six and had worked for a catering company for six months.
He had no criminal record.
He also had no reason to be carrying a false employee identification card.
Marco placed a small plastic bag on the desk.
Inside was a sealed vial.
"Found in his jacket," he said.
Alessandro looked at it.
"What's in it?"
"The laboratory will tell us."
"Who gave it to him?"
Daniel stared at the floor.
"I don't know what you're talking about."
Alessandro pulled out a chair.
"Sit."
Daniel remained standing.
Marco moved closer.
The young man sat.
Alessandro studied him.
"You were hired to serve drinks."
"Yes."
"Who gave you the instructions?"
"My supervisor."
"Name."
"Anthony."
"Last name?"
"I don't know."
Alessandro leaned back.
"You're lying."
Daniel swallowed.
"I swear."
"People who tell the truth usually remember names."
Marco placed a photograph on the desk.
It showed Daniel entering a parking garage two nights earlier.