Chapter 2 - The Audit
The morning sun filtered through the grand floor-to-ceiling windows of the Cattaneo estate, illuminating dust motes dancing over polished marble. It was precisely 7:25 AM. Lorenzo walked into the sunlit breakfast parlor, dressed in a tailored charcoal suit, expecting the usual quiet morning routine. Instead, he found a miniature stool placed squarely two feet from his favorite armchair. Perched on top was Mia, wearing the black jacket—now neatly safety-pinned at the hem so she wouldn't trip—holding a plastic clipboard and a chewed-up yellow crayon.
""You're late,"" she announced without looking up, scribbling a crude jagged line across her paper. ""The east wing was unsecured for four minutes while the bread truck unloaded.""
Behind her, standing near the archway with an espresso tray, Fausto Romani coughed to conceal a smirk. Fausto had served the Cattaneo family for forty years, surviving Lorenzo's grandfather, his father, and the brutal civil war that had claimed Lorenzo's older brother, Matteo. Seeing his stoic master outranked by a three-year-old was a spectacle Fausto wouldn't have missed for the world.
""The bread delivery is vetted, Bodyguard,"" Lorenzo replied smoothly, taking his seat. ""The driver is the cousin of my head chef. He's been delivering here since before you were born.""
""Complacency breeds casualties,"" Mia said with terrifying gravity, reciting a phrase she had clearly overheard from the guards' morning briefing through an air duct. ""Rule number one.""
Lorenzo stared at her, an involuntary grin tugging at the corner of his lips. ""And where did you learn rule number one?""
""The bald man with the radio said it when the gate sensor broke on Tuesday,"" she replied, chewing on the end of the crayon. She hopped down from her stool and walked over to the bay window, pulling the thick velvet drapes halfway shut. ""Stand behind the drape. The sunlight makes your silhouette obvious from the tree line.""
Lorenzo glanced at Fausto, who gave a slight, respectful nod. The child was right. A sniper positioned on the eastern ridge would indeed have a clear angle on the breakfast table during the morning hour. Lorenzo adjusted his chair into the shadow, intrigued beyond measure. ""Sit down, Mia. Have an orange.""
""On duty. No snacks,"" she replied, though her stomach betrayed her with an audible growl.
Lorenzo peeled a sweet mandarin with his pocketknife, slicing a neat section and holding it out. ""Executive order from your client. Eat.""
Mia evaluated the slice, then accepted it with a grave nod, popping it into her mouth. As she chewed, Lorenzo watched her profile. The tilt of her chin, the slight arch of her left eyebrow, the stubborn set of her jaw—it was an unmistakable genetic print. He remembered the stormy night four years ago in Milan, during the height of the Falcone feud. He had been wounded, hiding in a safe house near Lake Como, guarded by an undercover syndicate doctor. Sofia had been the private nurse assigned to clean his sutures and change his bandages. For two feverish weeks, trapped inside that lakeside sanctuary under the constant threat of assassination, they had crossed the boundary between protector and patient.
Then, one morning, she was gone. She had vanished into thin air before his fever broke, leaving behind nothing but an empty medical kit and the ghost of her perfume. Lorenzo had searched the entire province of Lombardy, assuming the Falcones had captured her, only for her to turn up three years later through a third-party domestic agency, applying for a humble laundry position at his country estate under a slightly altered surname. He had assumed she took the job out of financial desperation, never pressing her about the past because he feared his dark world would swallow her whole.
He had never once suspected she carried his blood.
""Fausto,"" Lorenzo said, his voice dropping an octave as Mia turned her back to inspect the lock on the patio door.
""Yes, Don Lorenzo?""
""Run a full sweep of the guest registry from the Como clinic, October four years ago. Then call Dr. Bianchi. Tell him I need a mobile DNA kit brought to my study by noon. Discreetly. If Sofia sees him, she'll panic.""
""Right away, sir,"" Fausto answered, bowing his head.
Before Fausto could step through the threshold, the intercom on the wall buzzed with an urgent tone. Marco's voice crackled through the speaker, tight with alarm. ""Don Lorenzo! We have an unscheduled convoy approaching the perimeter gate. Three black SUVs. It’s Don Silvio Falcone. He claims he's here to discuss the Adriatic shipping routes.""
Lorenzo's expression hardened into granite. Silvio Falcone was a hyena who only traveled in packs when he smelled blood or weakness. Lorenzo stood up, buttoning his jacket, the warmth of the morning evaporating into icy tension. ""Deny them entry at the gate.""
May you like
""He's already through the first barrier, Boss,"" Marco replied frantically. ""He brought city council paperwork. He's using local police liaisons as an escort to force a sit-down.""
Lorenzo cursed under his breath. He turned to lead Mia back to the staff quarters, but when he looked down, the little stool was empty. Mia had already marched into the hallway, her oversized sleeves swinging, headed directly toward the main foyer where the threat was arriving.
