Chapter 9 - THE FIANCÉE WHO TURNED AGAINST HER FATHER
The old apartment looked exactly the same.
That was almost worse than if it had been destroyed.
Same narrow kitchen.
Same yellow lamp.
Same secondhand sofa Vittorio claimed he found at a flea market.
I had chosen the blue cushions.
They were still there.
Police searched every room.
I stood in the doorway with Sofia.
Vittorio had been released from detention after Marcello’s statement and preliminary evidence cleared him of direct involvement.
He stood near the window.
No guards inside.
No suit.
Dark sweater.
For one second my body remembered Alessandro.
Sunday mornings.
Tea.
Bare feet.
His hand on my waist.
Then I saw investigators remove a hidden panel beneath the kitchen floor.
Inside:
Documents.
Shipping manifests.
Encrypted drives.
Cash.
And photographs.
Dozens.
Vittorio’s father.
Lorenzo.
Marcello.
Giacomo.
Ports.
Containers.
Then me.
I stopped breathing.
Photographs from when Vittorio and I were together.
The laundromat.
Coffee shop.
My apartment entrance.
Lake trip.
Giacomo had known about me before Vittorio disappeared.
Long before.
“He was watching us.”
Vittorio’s face changed.
“Yes.”
“Why didn’t he act?”
“He thought you were useful.”
“For what?”
“To control me.”
Simple.
Awful.
Vittorio stared at the photographs.
“He encouraged the false identity.”
I looked at him.
“How?”
“My uncle told me it was the safest way to investigate my father’s death.”
There.
Giacomo had helped create Alessandro.
Of course.
He wanted Vittorio separated from his normal security structure.
Emotionally exposed.
Easier to manipulate.
Then Vittorio fell in love.
That created another variable.
When Giacomo learned I was pregnant, the variable became succession.
Francesca arrived with Lorenzo.
Police had questioned her father extensively.
He was not innocent.
He had facilitated surveillance.
Hidden evidence.
Used the Ricci feud for negotiation leverage.
But so far there was no proof he ordered killings.
Francesca stood inside my old living room and looked around.
“This is where you lived?”
Vittorio answered:
“Yes.”
“With Elena?”
“Yes.”
She stared at the cheap sofa.
Then laughed.
“What?”
“You told me you hated small apartments.”
“I do.”
“You lived here voluntarily.”
Vittorio looked at me.
“I liked one person inside it.”
My chest tightened.
Francesca saw.
She smiled sadly.
Then removed her engagement ring.
Not dramatically.
Just slid it off.
She placed it on the table.
Vittorio looked at her.
“The contract is dead.”
“I know.”
“The trust amendments ended the reason.”
“I know.”
She glanced at me.
“And you were never going to marry me after Stellato.”
Vittorio said nothing.
Francesca nodded.
“Exactly.”
I felt unexpectedly guilty.
She saw.
“Don’t.”
“I’m sorry.”
“For what?”
“I existed.”
Francesca laughed.
“Terrible apology.”
“I’m learning from rich people.”
She smiled.
Then became serious.
“I never loved him.”
Vittorio looked offended.
Francesca ignored him.
“I respected him occasionally.”
“Generous.”
“Quiet.”
Then she looked at me.
“The engagement was a contract dressed like romance because our families thought newspapers needed prettier language.”
I looked at the diamond.
“What happens to you?”
“For the first time?”
She smiled.
“I decide.”
That might have been the happiest sentence spoken in the apartment.
Her father did not agree.
Lorenzo demanded the Bellandi-Ricci alliance continue through business partnerships.
Francesca refused.
He threatened to cut her off.
She said:
“Please put it in writing.”
Sofia whispered:
“I love her.”
Lorenzo left furious.
Three days later, Francesca resigned from every Bellandi family board and used personal assets inherited from her mother to start an independent investment company.
Her father did, in fact, reduce her trust distributions.
She sued.
Families apparently communicated primarily through litigation.
The drives from Alessandro’s apartment broke the case.
Giacomo had documented everything.
Men convinced they are smarter than everyone often preserve their own crimes because they consider records proof of genius.
Payments to Vittorio’s father’s killer.
Transfers to Marcello.
Payments for clinic access.
Instructions to monitor me.
The weapons planted in Ricci containers.
And one final plan.
PROJECT LEGACY.
I hated the name.
It outlined three possible paths.
Path One:
Vittorio marries Francesca. No biological heir. Bellandi agreement proceeds. Giacomo retains trustee influence and later engineers Vittorio’s removal.
Path Two:
Vittorio fathers child. Child used to destabilize Bellandi alliance. Vittorio killed before legal acknowledgment. Giacomo assumes emergency control.
Path Three:
If Elena survives and child is born, secure guardianship leverage through maternal discrediting, kidnapping, or “protective custody.”
I stared at the words.
Maternal discrediting.
Me.
Giacomo had reports on my finances.
Employment.
Rent.
Pregnancy.
Everything.
He planned to portray me as an unstable poor waitress unable to protect a wealthy heir.
My hands shook.
Vittorio read over my shoulder.
His face became deadly.
I turned on him.
“No.”
He froze.
“You are not killing him.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“Your face did.”
He looked away.
I continued.
“He wants you to prove his world is inevitable.”
Silence.
“If you kill him, what changes?”
“He stops breathing.”
“Vittorio.”
He almost smiled.
Then stopped.
“You’re right.”
“I know.”
Police issued international warrants.
Giacomo disappeared.
Switzerland.
Austria.
Maybe Croatia.
No one knew.
But his financial network collapsed.
Marcello began cooperating.
Ricci Maritime’s criminal investigation narrowed toward specific historical operations rather than the entire company.
Vittorio voluntarily surrendered several legacy businesses tied to illegal activity.
That shocked everyone.
Including me.
“You’re giving them up?”
“Yes.”
“How much?”
He named a number.
I sat.
Hundreds of millions.
“You don’t care?”
“I care.”
“Then why?”
He looked at the Project Legacy pages.
“Because every asset I protect by hiding what Giacomo did becomes another reason the next man thinks this system works.”
That sounded unlike the man I met at Stellato.
Or perhaps it sounded like Alessandro.
The quieter man.
The one who hated some parts of his inherited life even before I knew they existed.
At thirty weeks, I moved back to my own apartment.
Security remained.
My choice.
Vittorio visited less because legal restructuring consumed his days.
That was good.
I needed space.
Then one evening he arrived carrying groceries.
I stared.
“What is this?”
“Food.”
“I recognize food.”
“You once complained I never learned to cook properly.”
“You still haven’t.”
“I have improved.”
He burned risotto.
Badly.
I laughed for five full minutes.
He looked offended.
The baby kicked.
Vittorio placed his hand halfway toward my stomach.
Stopped.
Question.
I hesitated.
Then took his hand.
Placed it against the movement.
His face changed.
No mafia boss.
No Ricci heir.
No trust.
Just father.
Our son kicked again.
Vittorio whispered:
“Hello.”
I watched him.
Something inside me softened.
Not forgiveness.
Not yet.
But the possibility of it.
Then his phone rang.
Antonio.
Vittorio answered.
His expression changed.
“What happened?”
He listened.
Then looked at me.
“We found Giacomo.”
“Where?”
“Not far.”
My stomach tightened.
“How far?”
May you like
Vittorio’s voice became cold.
“He has been in Milan the entire time.”
