Chapter 3 - The Portrait of a Murderer
Dawn broke gray and cold across the Moretti estate. Alessandro had not slept.
He had spent the last hours before sunrise in his study, watching the sky change color through the tall windows, his coffee cooling untouched beside him.
At six o’clock, he sent for the chief of security. Enrico — a former soldier who had guarded the estate for twelve years — arrived within minutes and stood at attention just inside the study door.
“Pull the footage from the kitchen and the servants’ corridor,” Alessandro said without turning from the window. “Midnight to two in the morning. Every night from the last three nights. I want all of it on my desk by ten.”
“Yes, my lord.”
Enrico left without another word. Four hours later, he returned. The color had drained from his face. He stopped just inside the doorway and did not step forward.
“My lord,” he said, his voice tight. “The footage. All of it — from midnight to two on all three nights — it is gone.”
Alessandro turned slowly. “Explain.”
“Not corrupted, my lord. Not lost to a system fault. Erased deliberately. Someone signed into the master system, selected those exact hours across those exact three nights, and deleted the files in a single operation. The deletion logs were wiped as well. Only the shape of the missing hours remains.”
Alessandro was silent. “Who has the master code?”
The chief of security did not want to answer, but he answered. “Three people in the entire estate, my lord. Yourself. Marco Bellini. And the Signorina Victoria.”
Alessandro felt something cold and heavy settle inside his chest and remain there.
Victoria had the code. Victoria had prepared the butter with her own hands. Victoria had smiled and refused to taste her own work at the breakfast table. Victoria had every opportunity, every window of time, every reason, and every means to erase the exact hours in which she had been alone in the kitchen.
This was no longer suspicion. This was a portrait finished, framed, hung on the wall for any man to see.
There cannot be another explanation, he told himself. There cannot be.
He drew in a slow breath and let it out through his teeth.
At that exact moment, the study door opened without a knock, and Marco Bellini stepped inside.
Marco’s face wore the perfect measure of concern — the concern of a man who had heard whispers in the corridors and had come to offer his shoulder. He glanced at Enrico, then at Alessandro, then at the empty coffee cup on the desk.
“My lord,” Marco said. “The staff are talking about something on the security floor. Tell me what happened.”
Alessandro’s face gave away nothing. He walked back behind his desk and rested one hand lightly on the wooden edge. He told Marco about the poison butter. About Emma’s confession in the breakfast room. About Dr. Richi’s report. About the chemist’s verdict. About the erased footage from the three nights, and the three people who held the master code.
Marco listened without interrupting. When Alessandro finished, Marco’s hands closed into slow, trembling fists at his sides.
“My lord,” Marco said. His voice was thick with rage, and the rage was pitched exactly right. “She has gone too far. Whatever your heart has believed until this moment — forget it. Give me the order. I will lead the investigation myself. I will find every hand that touched that dish. I will not sleep until she is buried in her own lie.”
Alessandro looked at him for a long moment. Then he nodded. “You will assist the investigation, Marco. But the final judgment remains in my hands. No decision is made without me. No word is spoken outside this office. Am I understood?”
“Yes, my lord.”
Marco bowed his head and left.
Alessandro sat down slowly in his chair. In his mind, there was only one image now: Victoria, smiling across the breakfast table, her lips curling with amusement when he offered her the slice of buttered bread.
By late morning, Alessandro summoned the small council to the great hall.
The great hall of the Moretti estate was a long room with a vaulted ceiling of dark oak and tall windows draped in heavy green velvet. In its center stood a long table of black walnut, older than the family itself, at which every important decision had been made for three generations.
Only six people were permitted inside on this day. Alessandro. Bruno Ki. The three loyal lieutenants. And Marco Bellini. The doors closed behind them. The heavy iron bolts slid into place.
Alessandro sat at the head of the table. The others took their assigned positions along the sides. No one spoke until he did. He did not begin at once. He turned the family signet ring slowly around his finger, the dark gold catching the pale light from the tall windows, the lion’s head engraved on its surface staring out at nothing.
“Marco,” he said finally. “Speak.”
Marco stood, his voice steady, his hand resting flat against the wood of the table. “My lord, this cannot wait. Every hour we delay is an insult to the honor of the family. She has attempted to murder the head of the Moretti house — not with a blade, but with poison, quietly, over months, so that the world would call it a natural death. The men outside these walls will not respect a boss who hesitates. Give the order tonight. Let it be finished before dawn.”
He sat.
Alessandro turned to Bruno. The old consigliere did not stand. He only lifted his silver head slightly.
“My lord,” Bruno said. “The evidence is heavy. I do not deny it. But the family has survived four generations because we do not act on heat alone. Grant a week. Watch her. Question her. Let the boss see with his own hands what the boss must judge with his own hands. If she is guilty, no delay of seven days will save her. If she is not, no speed of seven hours will bring her back.”
Alessandro was silent. He rose to his feet.
When he spoke, his voice was not the voice of the man who had been in love with Victoria for two years. It was the voice of the head of the Moretti family — cold and even, the voice with which contracts were signed and lives were ended.
“For the next seven days, the Signorina Victoria will be confined to the West Wing under constant guard. No one is to lay a hand upon a single strand of her hair. No one is to raise a voice against her within these walls. Not yet. I want the final piece of proof — from her own mouth, or from my own hands. Only then will the family law be carried out in full.”
He paused. His eyes moved once, deliberately. To Marco.
“Any man who violates this order dies.”
The last sentence was not for Victoria. It was for Marco.
Marco felt it land. His lips pressed into a thin hard line, but he lowered his head at once. “Yes, my lord.”
The three lieutenants echoed the acknowledgement. Bruno bowed his head last.
Alessandro turned and walked toward the tall doors. Bruno rose and followed him at a respectful distance. The others remained seated, waiting to be dismissed by the sound of the doors closing behind their boss.
In the corridor outside, once the doors had swung closed, Bruno stepped alongside Alessandro and spoke very softly, only for him.
“My lord, I understand the anger. But do not let it close your eyes to another truth — if there is one.”
May you like
Alessandro did not answer. He did not turn his head. He walked forward with his gaze fixed on the far end of the marble corridor.
Behind them, the tall doors of the great hall shut with a low, final sound — like a verdict being sealed.
