Chapter 4 - The Massacre of the Falcones
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Seraphina stared at the most feared man in Europe, her heart hammering a frantic, bird-like rhythm against her ribs.
“I don't know what you're talking about,” she stammered, the terror threatening to drown her. “My name is Seraphina Hayes. I grew up in an orphanage in Kingston. I got this scar falling on a broken glass bottle.”
“You are lying,” Elias whispered, slowly standing up. The murderous rage had vanished, replaced by an obsessive, dark fascination. “Twenty years ago, my father ordered the eradication of the Falcone family in Corsica. It was a bloody, ruthless purge to secure the Mediterranean shipping lanes. No one was supposed to survive.”
He paced the length of the small room, his mind working with terrifying speed.
“I was fifteen years old,” Elias continued, his voice echoing off the concrete. “I stood in the courtyard while my father’s men cleared the manor. They brought out the bodies of the Don and his wife. But they couldn't find the youngest daughter. They said she had fled into the burning west wing. They found a child’s body in the ashes and assumed it was her.”
He turned back to Seraphina, his gray eyes piercing through the lies she had believed her entire life.
“But one of the enforcers confessed on his deathbed,” Elias murmured. “He said he caught the girl in the gardens. He slashed her shoulder with his hunting knife, but she slipped away into the dark. He lied to my father to avoid being executed for incompetence.”
“That isn't me,” Seraphina cried, shaking her head violently. “You have the wrong person!”
Elias ignored her. He walked to the door and threw it open.
“Stefan!” Elias barked down the corridor. “Get the medic. Bring clothes. And have the executive suite in the east wing prepared immediately.”
Stefan hurried into the room, looking bewildered at the sight of his boss standing over the bound, half-naked prisoner.
“Boss? We’re moving her to the east wing?” Stefan asked.
“Cut those zip-ties off her wrists,” Elias commanded, ignoring the question.
Stefan pulled a tactical knife from his belt and sliced through the thick plastic. Seraphina gasped, pulling her arms forward and desperately clutching the torn denim fabric over her scarred shoulder.
May you like
Elias stepped close to her, leaning down so his face was inches from hers. The scent of bergamot and expensive tobacco wrapped around her.
“You are not a nanny from Kingston,” Elias whispered, his eyes dropping to her trembling lips before meeting her terrified gaze. “You are Isabella Falcone. The lost heir to the Corsican syndicate. And you are the most valuable asset I possess.”
