Chapter Four
The silence inside Vito Morano's office lingered like gunpowder after a shot. Alex's fists were still clenched, heart pounding from the explosive confrontation with his father. The memory of Sophia's eyes—wide with a warning—still haunted him, her whispered words echoing in his head:
"You're in more danger than you think."
Outside the office, the corridor stretched cold and empty, lined with oil paintings and silent guards who didn't meet his gaze. Alex stormed past them without a word, the storm inside him far louder than the hush around him.
Sophia was already gone.
He knew she wouldn't stay. Not when she'd risked everything just to get that message to him.
Why the hell would she warn me?
The last time he trusted someone, Carlo ended up dead.
And now, Sophia Romano—a woman who appeared out of nowhere, too poised and too perfect—had secrets of her own. Ones that could destroy them both.
Alex's phone buzzed.
Diego: "We've got something. Meet me in the vault room. Urgent."
He didn't respond—he just changed direction instantly. His legs carried him through the marble halls like a machine programmed for war. No one stopped him. Not now. Word of the confrontation with Vito had already spread like blood in the water.
He was no longer just the heir.
He was the fuse.
The underground vault room was hidden beneath the estate—accessible only by a biometric scan and a reinforced steel door. Alex descended the staircase, heart thudding like the ticking of a time bomb.
When the vault opened, Diego stood waiting inside—hood down, sleeves rolled up, eyes gleaming with something between fear and fury. Papers and photos were scattered across the steel table in front of him, along with a tablet that displayed surveillance feeds.
"We found her," Diego said. "Bianca Rivas. Carlo's assistant."
Alex stepped forward. "Alive?"
Diego shook his head. "There was no body. But definitely not missing by choice."
He pointed to a series of stills from security footage: Bianca walking into a warehouse in East Docks three nights ago. Thirty minutes after that—four men entered. None of them came out on camera again.
Alex narrowed his eyes. "Zoom in on the man in the cap."
Diego did.
Alex's gut twisted. "That's Enzo Talenti. Russo enforcer. Ex-military. Disappeared last year after a failed hit on a Vitali shipment."
"So now he's back. Working for the Russos again," Diego said, voice grim. "He didn't kill Bianca there. You can see her phone ping two miles south four hours later. After that—nothing."
Alex rubbed his jaw. "She knew something. And they made sure she couldn't talk."
Diego flipped through more images. "And it gets worse."
He tossed a photo onto the table. Surveillance, again. Taken just this morning.
Sophia Romano.
Meeting with two men outside the old St. Michael's church—a known Russo front.
Alex's breath caught.
"I don't believe it," he said. "She warned me. Why would she risk that if she was with them?"
Diego stared at him. "Because maybe she isn't. Or maybe she's playing both sides. Either way, she's not who she says she is."
The anger burned in Alex's chest, clashing with something he hated to admit—doubt. And beneath that, something worse: feeling.
He remembered the tremor in Sophia's voice. The truth in her eyes.
"Track her," Alex said. "Don't make contact. Not yet. I need to know who she really is."
Diego nodded and left.
Alex remained, alone in the cold glow of the vault's fluorescents. For a moment, the silence returned, pressing on his chest.
Then his phone vibrated again. Unknown number.
He answered.
Silence. Then a distorted voice—filtered, masked.
"You don't know who to trust, do you, Morano?"
Alex didn't answer.
"That's good. That means you're finally starting to see clearly. This isn't just about Carlo. Or you. It's about everything. The Russos. The Moranos. The rot beneath the gold."
Click.
Alex stared at the phone like it had betrayed him.
A chill crept down his spine.
Who the hell was watching him?
That night, the estate hosted a dinner.
Public face. Show of strength. A charade for the families still loyal to the Morano name.
The dining hall was gilded, and crowded with politicians, business partners, and old mafia dons trying to stay relevant. Wine flowed. Laughter echoed. Deals whispered behind raised glasses.
But Alex sat at the end of the table like a ghost in his own house. Every laugh sounded hollow. Every toast, a eulogy.
Then he saw her.
Sophia.
In a midnight-blue gown, hair swept up, a diamond pendant catching the light at her throat. She looked every inch the perfect ally, the polished negotiator.
But her eyes—when they met his—burned with warning.
And guilt.
She walked past him, speaking softly to a pair of investors.
Alex rose and followed.
He caught up to her near the courtyard entrance, where the moonlight streamed through the arched glass.
"You lied," he said, voice low.
She didn't flinch. "Not here."
He grabbed her arm—gently, but firm. "You were with them this morning."
She turned to him, eyes pleading. "You don't understand. I'm trying to fix this."
"Fix what? What the hell are you mixed up in, Sophia?"
"I can't tell you. Not yet."
"Then give me a reason not to turn you over to Gianni right now."
Her lips parted—but her voice faltered. She looked at him like he was breaking her in half.
"I didn't come here to destroy you," she whispered. "I came to save someone."
Alex stiffened. "Who?"
But before she could answer, a shadow stepped into the corridor.
Gianni.
Watching.
And behind him, Vito Morano.
"Everything alright here?" Vito's voice was smooth, but his eyes were knives.
Sophia stepped back.
Alex forced a tight smile. "Just business."
Vito stared long at Sophia. "We'll see about that."
As they walked away, Alex's chest felt hollow.
Too many lies. Not enough answers.
But one thing was certain.
Someone inside his father's empire was feeding the Russos.
And the next betrayal could cost more than just an ally.
It could start a war.