Chapter 20
Lorenzo
By the time I reach the kitchen, every servant in the house is lined up against one wall. The cook. Two maids. The night steward. Three guards. All dragged from their beds. All pale now. All staring anywhere but at me.
Good.
Fear is useful.
Cesaro stands near the table, the glass of cloudy water sealed in a bag beside him like evidence at a trial. He looks from it to me, his expression carved from stone.
“Sir?”
I don’t answer him right away. I let the silence drag. Let it crawl over the room until the only sounds are uneven breathing and one of the maids trying not to cry.
Then I say, “This came from Miss Miller’s room.”
That gets their attention. And every eye goes to the glass.
“Someone,” I continue, looking at each face in turn, “tried to poison her.”
The words hit the room like a gunshot. The older maid gasps. The cook mutters a prayer beneath his breath. One of the guards straightens too fast, as if panic has jerked his spine upright.
Cesaro reacts first, voice clipped. “Who would do such a thing?”
“That,” I say softly, “is exactly what I intend to find out.”
I turn to Cesaro. “You told me you took her water upstairs last night.”
“I did, sir.” Then he points toward one of the younger maids. “But only because she was carrying a tray that looked too heavy. I offered to take it up for her. I swear to God, Boss, I didn’t do anything to harm her.”
I shift my gaze to the maid. She can’t be more than twenty. Dark eyes. Thin shoulders. Hands twisting in her apron so tightly her knuckles have gone bloodless.
“And you?” I ask.
Her eyes fill instantly. “Sir, it was just water.”
“Just water,” I repeat, and the smile that touches my mouth is dark enough to make her flinch. “Is that so?”
“Yes, sir.”
I motion for her to step forward. She hesitates.
Bad choice.
“Come here.”
She obeys this time, each step small and shaky, like she’s walking herself to the block.
I tap the bagged glass with one finger. “Take a sip.”
Her lips part. “What?”
“You heard me.” My voice stays quiet. That only makes it worse. “If it’s just water, you should have no problem swallowing it.”
“No, sir, I—”
“Drink.”
Cesaro slides the glass from the bag and sets it in front of her.
The whole room has gone still.
She reaches for it with trembling fingers and lifts it to her mouth. Takes the smallest sip possible.
I tilt my head. “Oh, you can do better than that.”
Tears spill down her cheeks as she swallows and takes a larger drink. For one suspended second, nothing happens. Then she makes a strangled sound and doubles over, one hand flying to her stomach.
The other maid starts crying outright. The housekeeper closes her eyes briefly, lips moving in silent prayer.
And me?
I feel nothing.
Not pity. Not hesitation. Certainly not mercy.
I only watch.
“I’m going to ask you once,” I say. “What did you put in her water?”
She shakes her head violently, gasping. “N-nothing—”
“Wrong answer.”
I take one step toward her. She stumbles backward, as if knowing how this will end for her.
I turn to Cesaro. “Separate them.”
The room erupts at once.
“No, sir, please—”
“I didn’t do anything—”
“You can’t think—”
“I swear on my children—”
“Quiet.” The single word drops like a guillotine.
I look at the maid again. She’s growing paler by the second, eyes too wide, breath too quick. Fear is rolling off her in waves now. Good. Let it.
“Did you know my guest was pregnant?”
“No, sir.” Tears stream unchecked down her face. “No, sir, I swear.”
Maybe she’s telling the truth.
Maybe she isn’t.
At this point, I don’t care which. Not yet.
I turn to the cook. “Did you?”
He recoils like I’ve struck him. “No, sir.” His head shakes hard enough to look frantic. “I didn’t know, I swear it. I would never do something like this.”
“Never?” I ask.
“No, sir.”
I step closer. “Then help me understand why a woman under my protection drank from a glass in my house and woke up bleeding.”
No one answers and the rage inside me goes colder.
I shift my attention to the guards. “Who was posted outside her room?”
One of them speaks up immediately. “I was for the first half of the night, sir. Then there was a gap since you were with her.”
I hold his gaze until sweat beads at his temple.
“You mean to tell me you thought it acceptable to leave my guest unattended?”
His throat works. “Sir—”
Cesaro steps forward, voice smooth as a knife. “Maybe he should drink the water too.”
I glance at the glass. Then at the rest of them.
“And an excellent idea,” I say quietly. “In fact, I think you all should.”
The room goes dead quiet. For one suspended beat, no one moves.
Then I smile.
“What?” I ask. “You object? I thought it was just water.”
That gets them moving. One by one, they obey.
Not because they want to. Because they understand the alternative is worse.
The guards try to keep their hands steady.
The cook mutters a prayer before lifting the glass.
One of the maids is already crying so hard she nearly spills it down the front of her uniform.
Let them choke on their fear.
Within minutes, the first one bends double.
Then another. A third grabs the edge of the counter, face draining white as sweat beads across his brow.
One of the guards lets out a low curse and stumbles into the wall.
The maid who carried the tray slides to her knees, clutching her stomach, a strangled whimper tearing out of her.
And me?
I feel nothing. Not pity. Not regret. Certainly not mercy. Only the cold satisfaction of watching them learn exactly what kind of line they crossed.
“You’re all fired,” I say.
The words drop into the room like stones in deep water.
No one protests. They’re too busy writhing.
I turn to Cesaro. “Find me a new crew.”
“On it.”
I leave them there. Crumpled on the tile. Begging to a God who has no place in my house tonight.
By the time I reach my study, the rage in me has gone cold enough to be useful.
I close the door behind me and brace one hand on the desk.
This doesn’t feel like Russo. That is what keeps scraping at the inside of my skull.
If he truly believes Elizabeth is carrying his child, why the hell would he poison her?
Why would he risk the baby? Men like Russo might destroy rivals.
They do not usually destroy their own blood before it’s even born.
Unless he’s more monstrous than I thought.
My phone rings. I stare at it for a second and then curse under my breath. Fuck.
I answer on the fourth ring. “This is Conti.”
“Where in the hell are you, boy?” Federico Marino snaps. “And why is my daughter alone in your home?”
His voice hits the line like acid.
My mouth curves, but there is nothing kind in it. “You do not address me like that, old man. Try again. This time with respect.”
When he speaks again, the fury is still there, but now it’s wrapped in something more careful. “If I find out you’re with that woman—”
“You’ll what?” I cut in with a sharp laugh. “You’re powerless, Marino, which is why you sold your only daughter to me in the first place. So I’d be very careful what comes out of your mouth next.”
His breathing roughens.
“People talk, Conti,” he says at last. “I think you’d be smart to remember that.”
I go still. Not because of the threat. Because of the wording.
Not my daughter is upset. Not come home. Not even your name is being dragged through the mud.
That woman.
Very few people know Elizabeth is here. Fewer still would be stupid enough to speak of her outside these walls.
I lean back in the chair and lower my voice until it turns dangerous. “Tell me something, Federico. When exactly did people start talking?”
“Does it matter?”
“Yes.”
He hesitates.
I smile without warmth. “Did your daughter send you crying, or did someone in my house decide to earn a little extra money on the side?”
“You’re not the only man with sources.”
“No,” I say softly. “But I am the only one on this call capable of making your last few years very uncomfortable.”
“You forget yourself.”
“No,” I murmur. “I remember exactly who you are. A man with debts. A man with a fragile family name. A man who needed mine badly enough to put his daughter in my bed and call it an alliance.”
His voice hardens. “Watch your mouth.”
“Or what?” I ask. “You’ll go public? You’ll challenge me? You’ll pull your support?” I laugh again, low and sharp. “You have nothing I can’t take away by morning.”
I let the silence stretch.
Then I say, “If anyone tied to your family so much as breathed near my guest tonight, I will bury every last one of them in lawsuits, debt, and scandal before I start on the bodies.”
The line goes dead quiet. Ah. There it is. He knows something.
When he answers, his voice is careful now. Too careful. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Liar.”
“Conti—”
“You called me to posture,” I say, cutting clean across him, “and instead you gave me something useful.”
His tone sharpens with alarm. “What useful thing?”
“That you knew about her.”
The old man says nothing. Which is answer enough.
I end the call without another word and stare at the dark screen in my hand.
Then I hit the intercom. “Cesaro. Now.”
He’s in the room within thirty seconds.
I don’t waste time. “Federico Marino just called.”
Cesaro’s brow lifts. “Is Mrs. Conti safe?”
“He knew about Elizabeth.”
That wipes the expression from his face.
“He shouldn’t,” Cesaro says.
“No. He shouldn’t.”
I push away from the desk and start pacing, my thoughts snapping into place one by one. Russo threatens war. Federico knows too much. Someone in my house poisons a pregnant woman. These are not separate problems. They are threads in the same knot.
I stop at the window and look out into the dark grounds below. Security lights cut across the garden in pale white bars. Somewhere upstairs, Elizabeth is lying in my bed frightened, thinking God knows what of me.
My jaw tightens.
“Here’s what we’re going to do,” I say.
Cesaro says nothing. He only waits.
“First, I want every call made from this house in the last seventy-two hours. Staff, guards, kitchen, drivers. Personal phones, burner phones, I don’t care. Pull them all.”
“Yes, boss.”
“Second, I want eyes on Marino. On his daughter. On every man in his circle who has the kind of pride that rots into spite.”
Cesaro nods once.
“Third—” I turn back to him. “We tell no one Elizabeth is stable.”
His gaze sharpens. “You want them uncertain.”
“I want them sloppy.”
A slow understanding settles over his face.
“If whoever ordered this thinks they failed,” I continue, “they’ll either try again or they’ll panic and reach for the person paying them. Either way, they move.”
“And when they do?”
I smile.
This one reaches my eyes.
“When they do, I close my hand.”
Cesaro’s expression hardens into something almost pleased. “A trap.”
“A hunt.”
I move back behind the desk and pull a sheet of paper toward me.
“Spread word through the wrong channels that the doctor is worried,” I say. “Say she’s weak. Say the bleeding hasn’t stopped. Say I’m furious and distracted.”
“Yes, boss.”
“Especially distracted.”
Because men only strike a second time when they think the first blow landed.
I start writing names.
Federico.
His daughter.
Two Marino cousins with more ambition than sense.
Three intermediaries who move gossip between old families and new money.
And under that, one final name.
Russo.
Cesaro sees it. “You still think he’s in it?”
“I think men rarely act alone when there’s a woman at the center and money on the table.”
He inclines his head. “Fair.”
I set the pen down and lace my fingers together. “If Russo is innocent in this, I’ll know soon enough.”
“And if he isn’t?”
The rage in me smiles first.
“Then the war he threatened starts early.”
Cesaro is quiet for a beat. “What about Miss Miller?”
That question lands lower than I like. I don’t answer immediately because I don’t know whether to lock her away for her safety or drag every truth out of her while she’s too weak to run.
And because part of me is still furious enough to remember the burner phone and the lies and the way she looked me in the eye while hiding entire worlds behind those blue eyes.
When I finally speak, my voice is flat.
“She does not leave this room. No food, no water, no medication reaches her unless it passes through my hands or the doctor’s.”
Cesaro nods. “Understood.”
“And put two women outside her door. Armed.”
His gaze flicks up. “Women?”
“She’s frightened enough.”
He doesn’t argue.
I gather the pages into one neat stack and tap them against the desk.
“I want every servant broken apart and every lie they’re protecting dragged into the light. I want to know which thread leads to Marino and which leads to Russo.”
“And if it leads somewhere else?”
I look up.
“Then whoever it leads to will wish it had been Russo.”
Cesaro leaves without another word.
I stand alone in the study for a long minute, staring at the door.
Upstairs, Elizabeth is waiting. Maybe crying. Probably hating me. Too bad. Because no one is taking another shot at her while she is under my roof. No one.
I reach for the gun in the desk drawer, check the chamber, and slide it into the back of my waistband. Then I turn toward the door.
It’s time to go back upstairs.