Chapter 3 - WHAT NERO HEARD AT TWO IN THE MORNING
Matteo did not know I had heard the recording.
That was the only reason he remained free inside my estate the next morning.
I wanted him comfortable.
Comfort made people careless.
At nine, Matteo walked into breakfast wearing a gray cashmere sweater and complaining about snow.
“Roads are terrible.”
I buttered toast.
“Stay home.”
He laughed.
“You say that like this place isn’t a military compound.”
Across the room, Marco stood unarmed.
Matteo noticed.
“Where’s your pistol?”
“Maintenance.”
Smooth.
Matteo looked at me.
“How’s Nero?”
“Resting.”
His cup stopped halfway to his mouth.
“Why?”
“Hip pain.”
“Old dog.”
Exactly the line from the recording.
Tell him the dog is getting old.
I looked down at my coffee.
“Maybe.”
Matteo relaxed.
That hurt more than if he had panicked.
He asked:
“What happened to the handler?”
“Ran.”
“Heard Nero nearly tore his arm off.”
“Who told you?”
Matteo paused.
“Security.”
Marco said nothing.
I smiled.
“Probably.”
Matteo continued eating.
I spent the next twenty minutes talking about legitimate business.
Olive imports.
Construction permits.
A hotel acquisition.
Normal.
Inside, every memory involving my brother rearranged itself.
Matteo at thirteen crying after our father’s funeral.
Matteo at nineteen calling me because he failed accounting.
Matteo at twenty-five asking for more responsibility.
Matteo standing beside me when Nero recovered from emergency surgery.
Had he become someone else?
Or had I simply stopped looking closely?
After breakfast, Matteo left for the downtown office.
I let him.
Then I called Isabella Vance.
No relation despite the surname.
Old family coincidence.
She arrived at noon.
Forty-five.
Sharp.
Controlled.
Expensive coat.
She entered expecting a trust meeting.
Instead she found Marco, Owen Blake, and me.
The audio device sat on the desk.
Isabella stopped.
“What is that?”
I played the recording.
Her own voice filled the room.
Matteo, this was supposed to be surveillance. You never said we’d hurt Nero.
She sat.
Slowly.
“Alessio.”
“How long?”
She closed her eyes.
“I can explain.”
“People say that when the explanation is usually worse.”
Her hands trembled.
Marco watched silently.
I asked:
“How long have you been helping Matteo spy on me?”
“Six weeks.”
“Why?”
“He told me you were being watched by federal investigators.”
I almost laughed.
“And attaching a microphone to my dog helps how?”
“He said normal surveillance channels were compromised.”
“Did that make sense to you?”
“At first.”
“Did you authorize the device?”
“No.”
“Did you know it was on Nero?”
“After.”
“Why were you there three nights ago?”
Isabella looked toward Marco.
“Matteo called me.”
“Why?”
“He wanted legal advice.”
“About animal cruelty?”
Her face tightened.
“About removing the device.”
That surprised me.
“He wanted it removed?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“He said the project was ending.”
“Then why inject Nero?”
“He became aggressive.”
“Because someone had staples in his skin.”
“I know.”
I leaned forward.
“Why surveillance?”
Isabella’s eyes filled.
“Your trust.”
There it was again.
Money.
“What trust?”
“The Romano Family Continuity Trust.”
My father created it twelve years earlier.
It controlled legitimate real estate, freight, hospitality, and manufacturing interests worth roughly $3.2 billion.
Unlike my criminal network, those holdings were legal, audited, and heavily structured.
I controlled voting rights.
Matteo held a minority beneficial interest.
“What about it?”
“Your father amended it before he died.”
“I know.”
“No.”
Isabella swallowed.
“You know the version we use.”
My chest tightened.
“Meaning?”
“There is a sealed succession addendum.”
Marco looked at her.
“Who knew?”
“Your father.”
“Dead.”
“Yes.”
“Who else?”
“His private counsel.”
“Dead.”
“Me.”
“And Matteo?”
“Recently.”
I stared.
“What does it say?”
Isabella looked sick.
“If you die without a legally recognized spouse or child, Matteo receives temporary voting control.”
Not surprising.
“He’s my brother.”
“Yes.”
“But?”
“The addendum changes permanent allocation.”
“Explain.”
“If Matteo holds temporary control for ninety consecutive days after your death, he can petition to consolidate several founder shares permanently.”
“How many?”
“An additional twenty-two percent.”
My blood went cold.
He would move from minority heir to dominant owner.
“Why ninety days?”
“Your father wanted continuity.”
“And if I marry?”
“Temporary succession bypasses Matteo.”
“Who gets it?”
“Your spouse becomes interim protector until the board confirms long-term structure.”
I sat back.
So marriage removed Matteo’s path.
I had no fiancée.
No children.
No plans for either.
From his perspective, all he needed was me dead.
Simple.
Too simple.
I looked at Isabella.
“Why did Matteo suddenly discover this?”
“I told him.”
Marco swore.
I raised one hand.
“Why?”
“He found references in a probate file.”
“You could have denied.”
“He threatened me.”
“With?”
Isabella began crying.
“My son.”
I stopped.
Her son, Lucas, was sixteen.
“What about him?”
“He was arrested last year.”
I knew.
Marijuana possession.
Charges dismissed.
Apparently not everything.
“There were pills in the car.”
“What pills?”
“Fentanyl.”
My face hardened.
Isabella continued.
“Lucas swore they weren’t his.”
“Were they?”
“I don’t know.”
“Matteo had the police file?”
“Yes.”
“He threatened to reopen it.”
“Yes.”
“Could he?”
“He had photographs the prosecutor never used.”
Marco asked:
“Why not come to us?”
Isabella laughed bitterly.
“Which us?”
Fair.
If Matteo had convinced her security was compromised, she would trust nobody inside the estate.
I asked:
“What exactly did he want from you?”
“The addendum.”
“And?”
“Your schedule.”
“Through Nero.”
“Yes.”
“Why my schedule?”
“I don’t know.”
“Think.”
Her eyes closed.
“He asked whether you still visited St. Michael’s alone on the anniversary of your father’s death.”
My stomach tightened.
Every November, I visited the church where my father’s funeral was held.
Alone.
No guards inside.
Only Nero sometimes.
The anniversary was in nine days.
Matteo knew.
I looked toward Marco.
He understood.
Possible assassination date.
“Ninety days after November eighteenth lands when?”
Marco calculated.
“February sixteenth.”
Isabella’s face changed.
“What?”
I looked at her.
“Board restructuring vote.”
Romano Holdings had a major recapitalization vote scheduled February seventeenth.
With ninety days of control, Matteo could consolidate shares one day before it.
Not coincidence.
I stood.
“What else has he asked?”
Isabella hesitated.
“Your medical directives.”
“Why?”
“Incapacity.”
Of course.
Not just death.
“If I’m incapacitated?”
“Matteo becomes emergency business proxy for certain holdings.”
“Temporary?”
“Yes.”
“How long?”
“Until recovery or court review.”
Marco said quietly:
“He may not need you dead immediately.”
I stared toward the window.
That made Nero’s surveillance even more useful.
Track where I went.
Hear who I trusted.
Know when I was alone.
Know whether I suspected anything.
A moving intelligence source.
I asked Isabella:
“Who else?”
“I don’t know.”
“No.”
My voice hardened.
“You heard Matteo speaking to someone.”
She looked down.
“Grant Hale.”
Our surveillance director.
That fit.
“Anyone else?”
“Caleb Ward.”
The handler.
“Voluntary?”
“I think he was paid.”
“Where is he?”
“I don’t know.”
“Did Matteo hurt him?”
“I don’t know.”
Isabella started crying again.
I believed she genuinely did not know.
Then she said:
“There is someone Matteo is afraid of.”
I leaned closer.
“Who?”
“Your housekeeper.”
I froze.
“Sienna?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“I don't know.”
“What did he say?”
“He asked whether she still had her husband’s belongings.”
My stomach tightened.
Sienna’s husband, Mateo Cruz, died two years earlier in an electrical fire at a warehouse owned by one of our subsidiaries.
I had paid funeral costs.
Created a trust for Elsie.
Hired Sienna at the estate when she needed stable work.
I had never considered the death connected to Matteo.
“Exact words.”
Isabella swallowed.
“He said, ‘If Sienna still has Mateo’s black case, we have a problem.’”
The room went silent.
I looked at Marco.
He was already moving toward the door.
“Stop.”
He turned.
“No estate security.”
“Why?”
“Because we still don’t know who Matteo owns.”
I called Sienna myself.
She answered on the third ring.
“Mr. Romano?”
“Are you safe?”
A pause.
“Yes.”
“Elsie?”
“Eating cereal.”
“Good.”
“I need to ask you something.”
“What?”
“Did Mateo leave a black case?”
Silence.
Long.
Too long.
“Sienna.”
Her voice changed.
“Who told you?”
My blood went cold.
“You have it.”
Another pause.
“Yes.”
“What’s inside?”
“I don’t know.”
“Why?”
“It’s locked.”
“Why didn’t you ever mention it?”
“Because the night before Mateo died, he told me if anyone from the Romano family asked about the case, I should take Elsie and run.”
Nothing in the room moved.
Not Marco.
Not Isabella.
Not me.
I whispered:
“Anyone from my family?”
“Yes.”
Sienna’s breathing became unsteady.
“He said especially not to trust the younger brother.”
Matteo.
Two years before Nero’s transmitter.
Two years before the succession addendum supposedly surfaced.
My brother’s plan had not started six weeks ago.
May you like
It had been alive when Sienna’s husband died.
And a widow I employed in my own house had been carrying evidence against him every day without knowing what was inside.
