Chapter 4
Maria remembered the blood.
Not because there had been much.
Because Thomas Hayes tried to wipe every drop from the kitchen floor himself.
“He kept saying he couldn’t let the staff be blamed.”
Bianca closed her eyes.
That sounded like her father.
Rocco stood near the fireplace.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
Maria looked at him.
“I tried.”
“When?”
“The next morning.”
“To who?”
“August.”
Rocco’s expression darkened.
Of course.
Maria had been nineteen.
A junior maid.
Rocco was a grieving son of the family surrounded by armed men.
August controlled access.
Maria continued.
“He told me Thomas had murdered Matteo.”
Bianca’s jaw tightened.
“He said if I repeated Thomas’s lie, you would think I was helping him.”
“Did you believe that?”
Maria looked at Rocco.
“Yes.”
That hurt.
Because at thirty-two, she was probably right.
He had executed a man before breakfast.
Rocco did not defend himself.
“What happened to Thomas after the kitchen?”
“August’s men took him.”
Rocco frowned.
“I was told he was found near the rail yard.”
“No.”
Bianca whispered:
“Where?”
Maria looked at her.
“In the old wine cellar.”
Bianca went still.
“Here?”
“Yes.”
Her father spent his final hours beneath the same estate where she had later agreed to marry Rocco.
August had designed that irony.
Bianca’s face changed.
Not grief.
Something colder.
“What did he say?”
Maria swallowed.
“He begged me to find you one day.”
Bianca stared.
“He knew I existed?”
“Yes.”
“My mother told me he never mentioned me to Bellacorte people.”
“He protected your name.”
Maria’s eyes filled.
“He said, ‘If Bianca grows up hating someone, make sure she hates the right man.’”
Bianca looked toward August.
The old man said nothing.
Rocco watched her revenge change shape.
Dangerous moment.
Hatred did not disappear when truth shifted.
It searched for a new target.
“Did August kill him?” Bianca asked.
Maria shook her head.
“I didn’t see.”
Rocco looked at August.
“I did.”
Everyone turned.
The admission came from Victor Dane.
He stood between two guards.
His face was pale.
Rocco waited.
Victor continued.
“I was twenty-six.”
“August’s man.”
“Yes.”
“Were you there?”
“Yes.”
Bianca crossed toward him.
Rocco stepped between them.
She glared.
“Move.”
“No.”
“He watched my father die.”
“Yes.”
“Then move.”
Rocco looked at her.
“You used my son for revenge against me.”
Her face tightened.
“And I stopped you.”
Silence.
“You do not get to become the same thing five minutes after learning the truth.”
Bianca stared at him.
Then stepped back.
Barely.
Victor spoke.
“Thomas was taken to the wine cellar.”
“August questioned him.”
“What about?”
“Who else knew.”
“Knew what?”
“That August had changed Matteo’s route.”
Rocco looked at his uncle.
August remained silent.
Victor continued.
“Thomas said Matteo discovered August was moving Bellacorte money and men without your father’s knowledge.”
“Why?”
“I didn’t know.”
“Then?”
“Thomas refused to name anyone else.”
“And August?”
“He told me to leave.”
“You left?”
“Yes.”
“Did Thomas walk out?”
Victor closed his eyes.
“No.”
Bianca turned away.
Rocco’s voice became quieter.
“Who took the body?”
Victor swallowed.
“Frank.”
The cousin who left the reception.
Rocco nodded toward Leonard.
“Find him.”
Leonard left.
August laughed softly.
“Victor has spent his life blaming me for his own cowardice.”
Rocco looked at him.
“Maybe.”
August stopped.
That answer bothered him.
Rocco continued.
“But Thomas warned Maria before he knew I had accused him.”
“He could have invented—”
“He named you.”
“Yes.”
“Before arrest.”
August said nothing.
Rocco turned to Bianca.
“When August found you at seventeen, did he tell you Thomas had confessed?”
“Yes.”
“Did he?”
Victor answered.
“No.”
Bianca closed her eyes.
Another lie.
August had taken a dead man’s daughter and shaped her using the murder he helped cause.
Rocco almost admired the cruelty.
Almost.
Then Maria said:
“There’s more.”
Rocco looked at her.
“Clara didn’t leave because Bianca dismissed her.”
Bianca frowned.
“I did.”
“Yes.”
Maria nodded.
“But she came back that night.”
“Why?”
“She heard Bianca meeting someone in the nursery corridor.”
Rocco’s eyes moved toward August.
Maria shook her head.
“Not August.”
The room changed.
“Who?”
“Clara saw only his back.”
“Description?”
“Tall. Gray suit. Wolf cufflinks.”
Rocco froze.
Wolf cufflinks.
He knew one man who wore them every formal evening.
Leonard Bellacorte.
His cousin.
The man Rocco had just sent to find Frank.
The man who had locked the doors before Rocco asked.
Bianca whispered:
“You said there were three men.”
Rocco looked at her.
“Victor, Frank, August.”
“Yes.”
“Leonard wasn’t one.”
“No.”
May you like
Rocco’s face hardened.
“Then someone else is running a second game.”
