Chapter 1 - THE INNOCENT IN THE DEPTHS
The photograph on the table was grainy, a black-and-white printout from a gas station security camera three miles from the Valente estate. In it, Karen Mitchell, the "grieving" nanny, was seen handing a thick, heavy-duty duffel bag to a man with a distinct scar running down his cheek—the same man I had seen idling near the service entrance the day before the incident.
"That's Marcus," Detective Santos whispered, reading my expression. "He’s a low-level enforcer for the Moretti family—the Valentes' biggest rivals. We suspect Karen was working for them. But we can't make an arrest without a confession, and Adrian Valente has essentially turned his estate into a sovereign state. No police allowed."
"So you’re telling me," I said, my voice hoarse from crying, "that the mafia boss has me in a cell for a crime his nanny committed, and there’s nothing you can do about it?"
"I’m telling you that Adrian Valente is a man of extremes," Santos replied. "He thinks you hurt his daughter, and in his world, you don't get a trial. You get a burial. I can't break you out, Isabella. But I can tell you this: Adrian’s brother, Luca, is coming into town for a summit. He’s the only one Adrian listens to. If you can prove your innocence to him, you might have a chance. If not… you’ll be moved to a permanent facility by Friday."
My heart plummeted. My sister, Lucia, didn't have until Friday. She had two months, but her condition was rapidly deteriorating. I needed to get out, and I needed to work to pay for her surgery.
The door swung open, and instead of a guard, Dante Moretti stood there. He wasn't wearing his usual suit; he was in tactical gear. He didn't speak. He just cuffed my hands behind my back and hauled me up.
"Where are we going?" I demanded.
"The boss wants to ask you a question," Dante replied, his tone devoid of emotion.
We weren't going to the police station. We were driven in a blacked-out SUV, winding through the Chicago suburbs until we reached the Valente estate. The mansion looked like a fortress in the moonlight. I was dragged through the back entrance—the same area where I had found Emma—and thrown into a room that smelled of old mahogany and expensive cigar smoke.
Adrian Valente stood by the window, his silhouette dark and imposing. He didn't turn around.
"My daughter is awake," he said, his voice a low rumble. "The doctor says she is making a full recovery. She asks for her nanny, Karen. She cries when she sees strangers."
He finally turned. His eyes were bloodshot, his face etched with a mix of fury and exhaustion. "I want to kill you. Every time I close my eyes, I see her lips, blue and cold. I see you with your hands on her."
"I was holding her to keep her heart beating," I shouted. "Check the cameras again! Not the ones Karen disabled, but the ones on the street! Check the gas station three miles away!"
"I don't have time for games, Isabella," he stepped toward me, his shadow consuming the room. "You were the only one there. Why?"
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"I was taking out the trash," I said, holding his gaze. "I heard a sound. A whimper. If I wanted to kill her, I would have left her in the bag. I wouldn't have brought her to your doorstep and screamed for help."
Adrian stopped, his jaw clenching. He looked at me, really looked at me, as if searching for a lie. He didn't find one, but he was too far gone in his grief to accept the truth.
