Chapter 18 - The Confession
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Fatima fell to her knees on the cold stone floor, weeping uncontrollably. “Thank you. Oh my God, thank you, Mr. Rienzi.”
“Do not kneel to me, Fatima,” Alessandro said firmly, reaching down to help her back to her feet. “You and your daughter saved my life today. I owe you a debt I can never fully repay. A new job and a scholarship are the very least I can do.”
He left them in the cellar to gather their things, promising that Matteo would escort them to a luxury suite downtown for the night while the estate was thoroughly cleaned.
Alessandro walked back upstairs, his footsteps echoing in the massive, empty halls. The house felt entirely different now. The pristine, suffocating perfection Genevieve had cultivated over the last sixteen months was shattered, replaced by the cold, hard reality of survival.
He walked out the back doors onto the sprawling lawn.
The white wedding tent stood completely dark against the night sky, whipping violently in the cold wind coming off Lake Michigan. The water crashed aggressively against the retaining wall, black and silver under the moonlight.
Alessandro unbuttoned his tuxedo jacket, pulling it off and tossing it onto a nearby chair. He ripped the uncomfortable bow tie from his neck and unfastened the top buttons of his shirt, breathing deeply for the first time all day.
He had won.
The Falcone syndicate was bankrupt. The assassins were dead or captured. Genevieve was running for her life, hunted by the very monsters who created her. His empire was secure, and his father's bloody legacy was finally entirely in his control.
He stood at the edge of the water, looking out at the vast, dark expanse of the lake. He felt a profound, heavy exhaustion settle into his bones, but beneath it, a strange, undeniable sense of peace. He was finally alone.
Then, the silence of the night was broken by a sharp, electronic buzzing.
It was his private, encrypted cell phone—the one only Matteo and his top three lieutenants had the number to.
Alessandro pulled it from his pocket, frowning.
He answered the call.
“Matteo,” Alessandro said, expecting a clean-up report. “Is the study clear?”
There was heavy, ragged breathing on the other end of the line. It didn't sound like Matteo.
“Hello, Alessandro.”
May you like
The voice was distorted, heavily masked by a digital scrambler, but the arrogant, mocking tone was unmistakable. It wasn't one of his men.
Alessandro’s blood turned to ice. “Who is this?”
