Chapter 8 - The Notebook of SinsAlessandro moved before Sophia could scream.
He stepped in front of her, one hand pushing her behind him, his body becoming a shield as naturally as breathing.
Marco lifted the gun slightly.
“Relax,” he said. “If I wanted her dead, cousin, she would not have made it through the wedding.”
Sophia’s blood went cold.
Alessandro’s voice was calm. “You killed Enzo.”
Marco laughed. “Uncle Enzo killed himself years ago. I only helped the ending arrive.”
Sophia’s fingers tightened around the leather notebook.
Marco noticed.
“Careful with that. It belongs to the family.”
“It belonged to Enzo,” Sophia said.
Marco’s smile turned toward her. “Still speaking. That is what I admire about poor women. No survival instinct, only noise.”
Alessandro took one step forward.
Marco raised the gun higher.
“Do not,” he warned. “I am emotional tonight.”
“No,” Alessandro said. “You are cornered.”
Marco’s face flickered.
There it was.
Fear.
“Give me the notebook,” Marco said.
Sophia looked at Alessandro.
His eyes did not leave Marco. “Run when I tell you.”
“No.”
“Sophia.”
“I said no.”
Marco laughed softly. “New wives. So loyal before they understand the terms.”
A shadow moved behind him.
Vincent.
The old steward appeared silently in the doorway and struck Marco’s wrist with a brass candlestick.
The gun fired into the ceiling.
Sophia screamed.
Alessandro lunged.
Marco hit the stone floor hard, the weapon skittering toward the pews. Alessandro pinned him with one knee, his forearm across Marco’s throat.
“Did you kill Lucia?” Alessandro asked.
Marco’s face purpled with fury. “Ask your aunt.”
Alessandro froze.
Marco smiled despite the pressure. “You still don’t know, do you? Poor king. Sitting on a throne built from secrets and never checking the foundation.”
Vincent retrieved the gun, breathing hard.
Sophia clutched the notebook to her chest.
Alessandro leaned closer. “Tell me.”
Marco spat blood onto the stone. “Lucia was going to leave with bank records. Not love letters. Records. Enzo helped her. She knew Valentina was laundering money through the foundation.”
Alessandro’s face drained of color.
“Elena’s father signed the transfers,” Marco continued. “Your precious almost-bride was part of it too. Lucia was not running away for love. She was running to the FBI.”
Sophia’s mouth fell open.
Alessandro looked as if something had broken inside him without making sound.
Marco whispered, “Your sister died because she was braver than you.”
Alessandro hit him once.
Not wildly.
Not like Derek.
A single controlled blow born of grief.
Marco slumped, stunned but conscious.
Vincent said quietly, “Sir.”
Alessandro stood.
His hands shook.
Sophia had never seen them shake before.
She stepped toward him, then stopped. She did not know if comfort was allowed between people married by necessity and surrounded by betrayal.
But Alessandro looked at her.
And for one moment, he looked less like a mafia boss than a man who had just found his sister’s ghost in a notebook.
Sophia reached out.
He took her hand.
Only for a second.
Then footsteps thundered in the hall.
Guards entered.
Vincent pointed to Marco. “Secure him.”
Marco began laughing as they pulled him up.
“You think this ends with me? Valentina has judges, officers, senators. She has your mother’s medical files. She has Elena’s father. She has Derek. She has everything.”
Sophia stiffened. “Derek?”
Marco’s smile widened. “Who do you think brought him back?”
Alessandro’s eyes went murderous.
Marco was dragged away still laughing.
In Alessandro’s study, they spread Enzo’s notebook across the desk.
Rebecca arrived within twenty minutes, hair damp from rain, glasses crooked, patience gone.
“This is either the best evidence I have ever seen,” she said, flipping pages, “or the fastest way to get all of us buried.”
Sophia sat on the sofa with Emma asleep against her side.
The little girl had woken from the gunshot but calmed only after Alessandro showed her he was unhurt. Now she slept with one hand gripping his suit jacket, refusing to let him move too far away.
Alessandro stood stiffly beside the sofa, as though a sleeping child holding his jacket was more terrifying than armed enemies.
Rebecca photographed pages.
“Foundation accounts,” she said. “Shell companies. Payments to officers. Judges. Medical examiner references. Enzo documented names tied to Lucia’s crash.”
Vincent closed his eyes.
Sophia whispered, “He kept proof because he felt guilty.”
Alessandro looked toward the window. “He helped them cover it up.”
“And then tried to undo it,” Sophia said. “People can be guilty and still afraid.”
He looked at her.
“You understand that too well.”
She stroked Emma’s hair. “I understand doing the right thing late is better than never doing it.”
Rebecca lifted a photograph.
“Alessandro.”
He crossed to the desk.
The photograph showed Derek Walsh outside a restaurant, shaking hands with Elena Bianchi.
Sophia’s breath stopped.
On the back, Enzo had written:
Derek Walsh paid through E.B. Custody leverage. Use child if maid becomes problem.
Sophia felt sick.
“They were going to use Emma from the beginning.”
Alessandro took the photograph carefully.
His voice was quiet enough to frighten everyone.
“No one uses Emma.”
Rebecca looked at him. “We need to move this through federal channels, not local police. Detective Harris may be honest, but he is outgunned.”
Vincent nodded. “Lucia had a contact.”
Alessandro turned. “You knew?”
Vincent’s face crumpled with old shame. “She asked me to mail documents the night she died. I was afraid. I waited until morning. By then…” His voice failed.
Alessandro stared at him.
Vincent bowed his head. “I have served this family thirty years. That delay is my sin.”
Sophia expected Alessandro to rage.
Instead, he closed his eyes.
“We all have sins in this house,” he said. “Tonight we choose what to do with them.”
A phone rang.
Sophia’s.
She looked at the screen and went rigid.
Unknown number.
Rebecca said, “Do not answer.”
But a text appeared.
A photo.
Emma’s old bedroom window.
Then another message.
Pretty locks. Pretty wedding. Still not enough.
Derek.
Sophia stood so fast Emma woke crying.
Alessandro took the phone from her hand, read the message, and became perfectly still.
Emma rubbed her eyes. “Mama?”
Sophia gathered her close. “I’m here.”
Another message arrived.
Trade the notebook by sunrise, or I tell the world what kind of mother brings murder into her child’s bed.
Alessandro handed the phone to Rebecca.
“No trade,” Rebecca said immediately.
Sophia looked at Alessandro. “He knows where we lived.”
“He knew,” Alessandro said. “Past tense.”
His phone buzzed.
A guard’s voice came through.
“Sir, Derek Walsh is not at his apartment. Neither are the two men from the gate.”
Alessandro looked toward the dark windows.
The storm had stopped.
But the night outside felt more dangerous than before.
Valentina had lost control of the frame.
May you like
Now she wanted the evidence.
And when powerful people want evidence badly enough, they stop caring who stands near the fire.
