Chapter 2 - THE TUNNEL BENEATH STELLATO
The second shot hit the marble column beside table twelve.
Vittorio moved before I understood what had happened.
One moment I stood beneath the amber chandeliers wearing his jacket over my waitress uniform.
The next, his body covered mine.
“Kitchen,” he ordered.
Antonio appeared beside us.
Another bodyguard, Matteo, moved toward the front of the restaurant while terrified diners crawled beneath tables.
Marco screamed at everyone to stay down.
I could hear glass breaking.
Women crying.
Men shouting.
And beneath all of it, the violent pounding of my own heart.
“I can walk,” I snapped when Vittorio tried to lift me.
His eyes dropped toward my stomach.
“You’re twenty-six weeks pregnant.”
“I noticed.”
“Elena.”
“Do not carry me.”
A gunshot cracked outside.
Vittorio’s jaw tightened.
Then, incredibly, he nodded.
“Fine.”
He looked at Antonio.
“Stay on her left.”
Then to me:
“Move.”
We crossed through the kitchen while cooks pressed themselves against stainless-steel counters.
A pan burned on an abandoned stove.
The sharp smell of garlic and smoke filled the air.
I had worked at Stellato for five months.
I knew the pantry.
The wine cellar.
The trash entrance.
I did not know the restaurant had a reinforced door behind the walk-in refrigerator.
Antonio entered a code.
The wall opened.
I stopped.
“What is that?”
Vittorio answered without looking at me.
“A service tunnel.”
“Restaurants have service tunnels now?”
“Restaurants I use do.”
Of course.
The ordinary shipping manager I had loved once complained that my apartment elevator was “too fancy.”
Apparently he had secret escape tunnels beneath luxury restaurants.
My anger returned.
Good.
Anger was easier than fear.
Antonio led us down concrete steps.
Vittorio followed behind me.
The tunnel was narrow enough that his shoulder occasionally brushed the wall.
Emergency lights glowed along the floor.
My cheap work shoes slapped against concrete.
The baby moved hard under my ribs.
I pressed one hand against my belly.
Immediately Vittorio noticed.
“Pain?”
“No.”
“Contractions?”
“No.”
“Bleeding?”
I turned around.
“Stop.”
He froze.
“What?”
“Stop behaving like you get to become concerned now.”
The words struck him.
Good.
Antonio kept walking but slowed enough to give us space.
Vittorio’s voice dropped.
“I never stopped being concerned.”
I laughed.
The sound was ugly.
“You disappeared.”
“Yes.”
“You changed your number.”
“Yes.”
“You left me a note saying you needed space.”
His face tightened.
“Yes.”
“I found out I was pregnant nine days later.”
He stopped walking.
I had told him the baby was his in the restaurant.
But hearing the timeline seemed different.
Nine days.
His eyes closed briefly.
“I called you thirty-two times the first week.”
His face went pale.
“I emailed.”
He stared.
“I went to your apartment.”
“Elena—”
“The landlord said you had moved.”
Vittorio said nothing.
“I went to the shipping office where you supposedly worked.”
His jaw tightened.
“What happened?”
“They told me no Alessandro Visconti had ever worked there.”
He looked away.
Of course.
“I thought I had lost my mind.”
My voice broke.
“I stood outside that building at seven months—”
I stopped.
Six months abandoned.
Twenty-six weeks pregnant.
My English phrasing in my mind almost tripped me, but the truth remained.
I had stood outside the office when I was barely two months pregnant, sick, terrified, holding a positive test inside my bag.
“They treated me like I was chasing a married man.”
Vittorio’s eyes filled.
“I’m sorry.”
I almost hit him.
Instead I whispered:
“You don’t get to fix six months with two words.”
“I know.”
“Do you?”
“Yes.”
His answer came quietly.
No defense.
No excuse.
That stopped me more effectively than an argument.
Antonio returned from farther down the tunnel.
“We need to move.”
Vittorio nodded.
We continued.
At the far end, another steel door opened into an underground parking structure beneath an office building two blocks from Stellato.
Three black SUVs waited.
Naturally.
Men with weapons surrounded them.
I stopped.
“No.”
Vittorio turned.
“What?”
“I’m not getting into a car with ten armed strangers.”
His expression almost became disbelief.
Then he remembered who I was.
Not one of his employees.
Not a woman raised inside his world.
Just Elena.
The woman who had once argued with Alessandro over whether pineapple belonged on pizza.
He signed? No—wrong story. He spoke.
“They work for me.”
“That is not comforting.”
One of the men looked away as though hiding a smile.
Vittorio took a breath.
“Fair.”
He pointed toward Antonio.
“You know him from the restaurant.”
“Barely.”
“Matteo will drive.”
“I don’t know Matteo.”
“You saw him.”
“I also saw someone shoot through a window.”
Vittorio looked around.
Every second mattered.
I knew that.
He knew I knew.
So instead of ordering me, he removed his phone and handed it over.
“Choose someone you trust.”
I stared.
“What?”
“Call them.”
“My cousin.”
“Call her.”
I dialed Sofia.
She answered on the second ring.
“Elena? It’s after—”
“Sofia, listen to me.”
My voice broke.
“Something happened at work.”
Silence.
“Are you hurt?”
“No.”
“The baby?”
“Fine.”
I looked at Vittorio.
At the face of Alessandro wearing another man’s identity.
Then said the sentence I never expected to say.
“Alessandro is alive.”
Sofia went silent.
Then:
“What?”
“He’s not Alessandro.”
Vittorio looked away.
“He’s Vittorio Ricci.”
Another silence.
Longer.
Then Sofia whispered:
“Get away from him.”
Vittorio heard.
His expression did not change.
I almost appreciated that.
“I can’t explain everything.”
“Where are you?”
I told her the parking structure.
Vittorio quietly interrupted.
“No.”
I glared.
He took one step closer but did not reach for the phone.
“That location is compromised.”
Sofia heard.
“Is that him?”
“Yes.”
“Put him on.”
I almost smiled.
Vittorio looked surprised.
I handed over the phone.
He lifted it.
“This is Vittorio.”
My cousin began shouting so loudly I heard every word from three feet away.
“You lying bastard.”
Antonio coughed.
Someone else suddenly found the ceiling fascinating.
Vittorio accepted the abuse.
After nearly a minute he finally said:
“You’re right.”
Sofia stopped.
Apparently she had not expected agreement.
“I need Elena somewhere protected tonight.”
“You don’t get to decide that.”
“No.”
He looked at me.
“She does.”
Another pause.
Vittorio continued.
“I can send a car for you. You may stay with her. You can bring anyone you trust after security checks.”
I stared.
He was offering me a witness.
Someone from my life.
Not locking me alone inside his.
Sofia asked:
“Where?”
“A private medical residence outside Milan.”
“Hospital?”
“No. My physician uses it for family emergencies.”
Sofia cursed again.
Then:
“I’m coming.”
Vittorio gave Antonio the phone and instructed him to arrange transport.
I looked at him.
“Medical residence?”
“Your blood pressure needs checking.”
“My blood pressure is fine.”
“You were nearly shot.”
“I’m aware.”
“And you became dizzy before the shooting.”
I hated that he remembered.
Vittorio’s expression softened.
“Elena, I am not asking you to trust me.”
“Good.”
“I am asking you to let a doctor verify that our son is safe.”
Our son.
The words hurt.
Because they were true.
Because he had done nothing to earn the intimacy of saying them.
I looked at the SUV.
Then at Antonio.
Then at Vittorio.
“Fine.”
His shoulders loosened slightly.
“But Sofia comes.”
“Yes.”
“I keep my phone.”
“Yes.”
“No one locks me in a room.”
His face hardened.
“No one will.”
“And Francesca does not come near me.”
Something passed through his eyes.
“Agreed.”
I got into the SUV.
Vittorio started toward the same door.
“No.”
He stopped.
“I ride with Antonio.”
His jaw tightened.
For one terrible second I saw the mafia boss.
The man accustomed to obedience.
Then he opened his hand and stepped back.
“Fine.”
That mattered.
Not enough.
But something.
The convoy moved through Milan.
Antonio sat beside the driver.
I watched the city through dark glass.
The restaurant disappeared behind us.
My old life had already disappeared six months earlier.
Now even the explanation for that disappearance had changed.
After ten minutes Antonio’s phone rang.
He answered.
His expression hardened.
“What?”
Vittorio’s voice came through faintly from another vehicle.
Antonio responded:
“No. We have her.”
A pause.
Then:
“Understood.”
He hung up.
“What happened?”
Antonio looked at me.
“Francesca is missing.”
I stared.
“What?”
“She left Stellato through a rear exit during the attack.”
“Maybe she ran.”
Antonio’s expression suggested he did not believe that.
Then another message arrived.
He read it.
His face changed.
“What?”
Antonio turned the phone toward me.
A photograph.
Francesca.
Inside a car.
Her red dress unmistakable.
Someone sat beside her.
An older man with silver hair.
She looked terrified.
Below the photograph was one sentence.
VITTORIO CAN KEEP THE WOMAN.
WE WANT THE BOY.
My hand flew to my stomach.
Antonio immediately called Vittorio.
But I already understood enough.
Francesca had called her father.
Perhaps she had betrayed Vittorio.
Perhaps she had made a terrible mistake.
Either way, someone now considered my unborn child more valuable than she was.
And the question I needed answered had changed.
May you like
It was no longer simply why Vittorio had abandoned me.
It was why men with guns believed a child who had not even been born could decide the future of an empire.
