Chapter 14
Cesare
The acquisition contracts blurred together on my laptop screen. A Brooklyn tech startup, clean financials, profitable within eighteen months if managed correctly. Legitimate business expansion—the kind that looked good on paper and better in federal investigations.
I had options. Send her to one of the European territories with enough money to start over. Put her in witness protection through FBI contacts. Or the permanent solution some of my men had suggested—make her disappear entirely.
But I couldn't make that call alone. Not when it involved Paola's twin sister.
Paola needed to be part of the decision. Whatever we did with Bianca, it had to be something Paola could live with. Something that wouldn't haunt her, wouldn't make her resent me years from now when she looked back.
So I waited. Watched Bianca. Gave Paola time to process the betrayal, to decide what mercy—if any—her sister deserved.
Meanwhile, Bianca remained a distraction. A reminder of everything that had gone wrong. A thorn in my plans that Paola tried to hide her feelings about but couldn't quite manage.
The penthouse stretched quiet around me.
Paola was in the study, working on a gallery exhibition proposal she'd been researching for the past week. She’d slowly been able to dip into her old life, just a bit–still couldn’t meet with old acquaintances, but she was working again at least. I could hear the occasional tap of her keyboard, the rustle of papers when she made notes.
Life had found a strange normalcy. A dangerous word in my world, but accurate.
My phone buzzing shattered the silence. Rocco.
I answered. "Yeah."
"Boss. Those documents from Bianca—I've been going through them systematically like you asked. There's something you need to see. About Piero."
Every muscle in my body locked. "What about him?" Why the hell would my brother be showing up in Lombardo documents?
"Not over the phone. Can you come down to your office? I'm here now with the files."
The urgency in Rocco's voice set off every alarm I'd developed over six years in this business. "I'll be there as soon as I can. I need to do something first."
I hung up, stared at the phone. Piero. What could Bianca's documents possibly have about Piero?
I found Paola in the study, laptop open, surrounded by notes about Renaissance art. Light from the window caught in her dark hair, turning it copper at the edges.
She looked up when I entered, smiled—the real smile she'd developed over the past few weeks, not the fearful one from the beginning.
"Hey. I was just reading about this amazing Caravaggio exhibit in—"
"I have to go to the office," I interrupted. "Something's come up."
Her smile faded. She knew that tone. "What kind of something?"
"Not sure yet. Rocco found something in Bianca's documents. About Piero. Do you have any idea…?"
Paola shook her head. “I tried to stay out of Giovanni’s business as much as I could.
If your brother was involved I wouldn’t have known.
” She’d shifted to calling her father by his name, now, a signifier of the ties severed between them.
She closed her laptop, already standing. "I'm coming with you."
"Paola—"
"We've been through this. We're partners now. Whatever this is, we face it together." She moved toward the bedroom to change. "Give me five minutes."
I should argue. Should tell her to stay where it was safe, where I wouldn’t have to worry about her while dealing with whatever Rocco found.
But she was right. We were partners now. And I'd learned over the past five weeks that Paola's instincts were often sharper than my own.
"Five minutes," I agreed.
We took the Aston Martin—the car I rarely drove, kept in the building's private garage for occasions that demanded speed over discretion.
Manhattan traffic was typical for Tuesday afternoon. Congested but moving, a river of metal and exhaust.
Paola sat quiet beside me, sensing my tension. Her hand rested on her lap, fingers occasionally tapping an unconscious rhythm.
"Do you think Piero's in trouble?" she asked finally.
"I don't know. Piero's been solid for six years. Never given me reason to doubt him."
"But?"
"But Bianca had access to a lot of information before she ran. If she documented something about Piero..." I didn't finish the thought.
If my brother had been compromised, if there was evidence of betrayal—
It would destroy me. Piero was the only family I trusted completely. The only family I still had.
Paola's hand found mine on the gear shift. "Whatever it is, we'll handle it. Like we handle everything else."
Her faith in us—in "we"—steadied me more than she knew.
The building rose sleek and modern in Midtown—forty stories of glass and steel housing legitimate Monti Industries operations. My office occupied the top floor, naturally. A corner space with views of Manhattan stretching in three directions.
We took the private elevator. Security nodded as we passed—everyone knew Mrs. Monti now. Five weeks of occasional visits, of Paola bringing me lunch, of building a public image of devoted newlyweds.
It wasn't entirely performance anymore. That was the strange part.
Rocco waited in my office, laptop open, documents spread across the mahogany desk in careful rows. He looked like he hadn't slept—eyes red-rimmed, coffee cups scattered across every available surface.
"How long have you been working on this?" I asked.
"Since you brought the documents back. I wanted to be thorough. Verify everything before I brought you something that might be... problematic."
The hesitation in Rocco's voice was unusual. He was normally direct, blunt even.
"Show me."
Rocco pulled up the first document—an email thread, encrypted but Bianca had included the decryption key.
"These are communications between someone with the handle 'Shadowking' and Viktor Kozlov. Dating back six months."
Six months. Before the wedding. Before everything.
"'Shadowking' has been feeding Viktor information: your security protocols, your meeting schedules, details about your operations, shipment routes."
My jaw clenched. A spy. Inside my organization. For six months.
"That could be anyone," Paola said, voicing what I was thinking. "Why do you think it's Piero?"
Rocco clicked to another document. "Because of this."
A wire transfer record. Money moving from one of Viktor's shell companies to an account in the Cayman Islands.
The account holder: P. Monti.
My blood turned to ice.
"No." My voice came out flat. Absolute. "Piero wouldn't. There has to be another explanation."
"Boss—" Rocco started.
"He's my brother. He's stood by me for six years. He's risked his life for this family."
"I know. But the evidence—"
"Could be fabricated. Bianca forged documents about Paola, remember? Why not forge these too?"
Paola spoke up. "Cesare's right. We need to verify the account. When was it opened?"
Rocco checked. "Three years ago. March twelfth."
Paola looked at me. "Where was Piero three years ago on March twelfth?"
I pulled out my phone, checked old calendars. Three years ago... March...
My blood ran cold for a different reason. "He was in the hospital. Car accident. Broken leg, concussion. He was unconscious for two days."
Understanding dawned on Paola's face. "So how did he sign paperwork in the Cayman Islands while unconscious in a Boston hospital?"
Rocco swore. "The signature's forged. Someone set up this account in Piero's name."
My mind raced, re-evaluating everything through this new lens.
"But the emails. The details only our inner circle would know—"
Paola asked, "Who else has been in your inner circle for years? Who would know Piero's schedule well enough to time these communications when Piero had alibis?"
Rocco was already pulling up more documents, cross-referencing. "Let me check something. The emails... if I cross-reference with Piero's known locations during each communication..."
He worked furiously. Minutes passed in tense silence. I stood behind him, watching data scroll across the screen, patterns emerging.
Then: "Boss. Every single Shadowking communication happened when Piero was either in meetings with you, in public places with witnesses, or otherwise accounted for."
"So someone is framing him," I said slowly. "Using his name, his signature, his access—but it's not actually him."
Relief flooded through me, followed immediately by rage. Someone was trying to turn me against my brother.
"But who?" Paola asked. "Who has that kind of access?"
I thought through my organization systematically, methodically.
"Who has access to Piero's schedule?"
Rocco answered, "His assistant, Rosa. But she's been with the family for twenty years."
"Who knows security protocols?"
"Giulio. But he's proven loyal repeatedly."
"Who handles finances and would understand offshore accounts?"
A pause. Then Rocco said quietly, "Matteo."
I went very still. "Matteo."
Matteo. My financial operations chief. Trusted for four years. He had access to everything—accounts, schedules, internal communications.
"Pull up Matteo's financial records," I ordered. "All of them."
"Boss, Matteo's been with us for—"
"Pull them up. Now."
Rocco hesitated, then complied. Banking records, investments, personal accounts flooded the screen.
"Look for connections to Viktor or anyone in his organization."
Rocco searched. Minutes passed, marked by the tap of keys, the hum of the laptop's fan.
Then: "Boss. Matteo's sister married a Russian national five years ago. Dmitri Volkov."
"Who's Dmitri Volkov?"
More typing. "Viktor Kozlov's nephew. A low-level operative in Viktor's organization."
The connection. Family ties. Leverage. And the timeline added up; Viktor could have gotten to Matteo, forced him to open that bank account three years ago. But why start communicating with him now? Telling him about my operations, movements, now?