Chapter 4 - THE WOMAN IN RED TOLD THE TRUTH
Francesca Bellandi arrived barefoot.
That was the first thing I noticed.
The woman who had sat across from Vittorio wearing a diamond large enough to finance my entire apartment now entered the clinic with blood on one heel and no shoes.
The red dress was torn at the shoulder.
Her hair had fallen loose.
She looked furious.
Not fragile.
Two security men followed.
Vittorio stepped toward her.
Francesca raised one hand.
“If you ask whether I’m injured before apologizing for assuming I betrayed you, I will slap you.”
Sofia whispered:
“I definitely like her.”
I did not answer.
Vittorio stopped.
“You called Lorenzo.”
“He is my father.”
“Three armed men arrived six minutes later.”
“And then my father’s men dragged me into a car because apparently he thought you would shoot me first and ask questions afterward.”
Francesca looked toward me.
Then at my stomach.
Her expression changed.
Not jealousy.
Guilt.
“Elena.”
I remained still.
She walked closer, then stopped several feet away.
“I’m sorry.”
“For?”
“Calling my father.”
“Did you tell him I was pregnant?”
“Yes.”
At least honest.
My jaw tightened.
Francesca continued quickly.
“I did not tell him your name.”
“He already knew.”
“Yes.”
That frightened her.
“I called him because Vittorio and I have spent eighteen months navigating a political agreement between two families who barely trust each other.”
She looked at Vittorio.
“And because suddenly discovering my future husband has a pregnant former lover in the middle of dinner was slightly destabilizing.”
“Former lover?”
I said.
Francesca grimaced.
“Bad word.”
“Very.”
“Woman he loved.”
Vittorio looked at her sharply.
Francesca ignored him.
“I asked my father whether he knew.”
“And?”
“He went silent.”
Her face hardened.
“I knew immediately something was wrong.”
“What did he say?”
“Stay where you are.”
Vittorio’s eyes narrowed.
Francesca continued.
“I went to the restroom. Two of my father’s security men were already entering through the staff corridor.”
“That quickly?”
“Yes.”
“So they were nearby.”
Vittorio looked at Antonio.
Antonio nodded.
Important.
Lorenzo’s men had not driven across Milan after the call.
They were positioned.
Watching.
Francesca continued.
“One grabbed me. Said my father wanted me removed before shooting started.”
“What shooting?” Sofia asked.
Francesca looked toward Vittorio.
“Exactly.”
The attack was expected.
Someone knew conflict was coming.
Vittorio asked:
“Did Lorenzo order the shooters outside?”
“No.”
“You believe him?”
Francesca laughed bitterly.
“I believe he knew someone would attack.”
Different.
“Why?”
Francesca pulled a phone from her bag.
Not the one from Stellato.
A second device.
“My father keeps one secure line for family emergencies.”
She opened a message.
Received at 7:41 p.m.
Twenty-nine minutes before I served table twelve.
DO NOT LET RICCI LEAVE STELLATO WITH THE WAITRESS.
Francesca showed Vittorio.
No sender name.
Encrypted number.
“Who received it?”
“My father.”
“How do you have it?”
“He left the phone in the car after I stabbed his driver.”
Sofia smiled proudly.
Francesca continued.
“Scroll.”
Another message.
IF THE WOMAN IS CONFIRMED PREGNANT, THE SUCCESSION AGREEMENT IS VOID.
Another.
THE BOY CANNOT REACH RICCI HOUSE.
I felt sick.
Vittorio’s face became terrifyingly calm.
“Who knew about the succession clause?”
Francesca counted.
“Our fathers when your father was alive.”
“Mine is dead.”
“Yes.”
“Lorenzo.”
“Yes.”
“Me.”
“Yes.”
“You.”
“Yes.”
“Our attorneys.”
“Four of them.”
Antonio added:
“Senior family trustees.”
Vittorio looked at him.
“How many?”
“Six.”
Too many.
Francesca looked at me.
“The clause is not public.”
“Obviously.”
“It also contains something Vittorio didn’t tell you.”
Vittorio’s expression hardened.
“Francesca.”
I looked at him.
“What?”
Francesca crossed her arms.
“You see? This is why women hate family contracts.”
“Tell me.”
She did.
“If Vittorio has a biological son before marrying me, the joint succession arrangement doesn’t merely change.”
My stomach tightened.
“It collapses.”
“Meaning?”
“The Bellandi family loses the right to acquire a forty-percent stake in Ricci Maritime after Vittorio’s death.”
I stared.
“Forty percent?”
“Yes.”
“That is why they want my baby?”
Francesca’s expression became serious.
“Somebody wants your baby gone.”
Silence.
The words were worse spoken plainly.
Vittorio moved closer.
I stepped back.
Not now.
He stopped.
Francesca continued.
“But I don’t think my father ordered it.”
“Why?”
“Because he wants Ricci Maritime.”
“That sounds like motive.”
“Yes.”
“But killing you would guarantee war.”
She looked at Vittorio.
“My father is greedy. He is controlling. He is capable of crimes I probably don’t want documented.”
A pause.
“He is not stupid.”
Sofia muttered:
“High standard.”
Francesca almost smiled.
“The attack at Stellato was designed to look like Bellandi aggression.”
Vittorio nodded slowly.
I followed.
Francesca calls her father.
Armed men arrive.
Vittorio blames Bellandi.
War begins.
Meanwhile someone else benefits.
“Who?”
I asked.
No one answered.
Then Vittorio looked at Antonio.
“My uncle.”
Antonio’s face changed.
Francesca went still.
I looked between them.
“What uncle?”
“Giacomo Ricci.”
Vittorio’s father’s younger brother.
I had never heard the name.
Vittorio continued.
“He serves as chairman of the family trust.”
“The one controlling succession?”
“Yes.”
There.
Sofia whispered:
“That seems bad.”
Vittorio stood.
“Antonio, pull every communication involving Giacomo for six months.”
Antonio moved.
Francesca said:
“He hates the Bellandi agreement.”
Vittorio looked at her.
“How do you know?”
“He told my father it polluted Ricci blood.”
The phrase made my skin crawl.
“And my son?”
Francesca looked at me.
“He would strengthen the Ricci line.”
“That sounds like something Giacomo would want.”
Vittorio nodded.
Unless.
Then his face changed.
“What happens if I die before Elena gives birth?”
Francesca stared.
Antonio stopped moving.
Someone answered from the doorway.
Dr. Ferraro.
“Do I need to leave?”
No one noticed her.
Vittorio ignored the question.
“Francesca.”
She thought through the contract.
“If you die unmarried without a legally acknowledged living child, the family trustees appoint the next controlling director.”
“Chairman breaks ties.”
“Yes.”
Giacomo.
The room became silent.
The unborn baby was not the only target.
Vittorio was too.
Again.
“If I live and Elena’s son is born,” Vittorio said, “Giacomo loses influence.”
“Yes.”
“If I die before acknowledging the child—”
“He controls succession.”
My blood turned cold.
Vittorio looked at me.
Now I understood why he had gone white at Stellato.
Not just because I was pregnant.
Because my pregnancy changed a power structure he had spent years navigating.
Then Francesca said quietly:
“There is one more problem.”
I almost laughed.
“Of course.”
She looked at Vittorio.
“Your father changed the trust six weeks before he died.”
Vittorio stared.
“What?”
“My father has a copy.”
“Changed how?”
“He added a provision requiring any biological heir conceived before Vittorio’s thirty-fifth birthday to receive an irrevocable ownership share at birth.”
I looked at Vittorio.
“How old are you?”
“Thirty-four.”
Fantastic.
My son apparently had a deadline before birth.
Francesca continued.
“Five percent.”
Vittorio swore.
I looked at him.
“Five percent of what?”
“Ricci Maritime.”
“And what is that worth?”
He hesitated.
“Vittorio.”
“Approximately eight hundred million euros.”
Sofia sat down.
I almost did too.
Five percent.
Forty million euros.
My unborn son.
My hand covered my stomach.
“No.”
Again.
Vittorio looked at me.
“I know.”
“No money.”
“Elena.”
“No.”
Francesca surprised me.
“She’s right.”
Vittorio stared.
“That provision paints a target on the child.”
“Yes.”
Francesca turned to me.
“It cannot be removed before birth without a trustee vote.”
“Who controls trustees?”
“Giacomo influences three of six.”
“And Vittorio?”
“Two.”
“The sixth?”
Francesca’s expression changed.
“My father.”
Of course.
The entire nightmare required Lorenzo Bellandi.
Enemy.
Possible ally.
Father of Vittorio’s fiancée.
Man whose daughter had just stabbed his driver.
Sofia whispered:
“Your family dinners must be incredible.”
Francesca laughed unexpectedly.
Even I almost did.
Then Antonio returned.
He held a tablet.
“Boss.”
Vittorio took it.
“What?”
“Giacomo left Milan three hours ago.”
“For where?”
Antonio looked toward me.
“Bologna.”
My throat tightened.
“Why does that matter?”
Antonio answered:
“Your cousin lives there.”
Sofia’s face went white.
“My brother.”
Paolo.
The only other person I had told about my pregnancy before it became visible.
Suddenly I understood.
If someone wanted information about me, they might not start with my apartment.
They might start with family.
Vittorio was already moving.
“Get Paolo.”
Antonio called.
No answer.
Again.
Nothing.
Sofia stood.
“He always answers me.”
She called.
Voicemail.
Again.
Nothing.
Then her phone buzzed.
Paolo.
A message.
She opened it.
A photograph appeared.
Paolo seated in a chair.
Hands tied.
Blood at his temple.
Behind him stood an older man in a dark suit.
Silver at his temples.
Vittorio looked at the screen.
His face became stone.
“Giacomo.”
Below the image:
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BRING ELENA TO RICCI HOUSE.
THE FAMILY SHOULD MEET ITS FUTURE.
