Chapter 4 - The Shadow in the Lobby
Peace in the Duca Tower was always a fragile illusion.
For three months, our secret arrangement worked like clockwork. Mia grew stronger, transitioning from wobbly crawls to swift, determined scuttles across the marble floors. Alessandro continued his high-stakes acquisitions, but his schedule mysteriously cleared every afternoon between four and five—a sacred hour dedicated to inspecting the perimeter gates and reading board books to an unimpressed infant.
Then came Monday morning, and with it, Marcus Vance.
Not Vance the head of security, but Marcus Vance Sr.—Alessandro’s uncle and the minority shareholder of Duca Holdings. A man whose public charm masked a razor-sharp ruthlessness that made even veteran Wall Street brokers sweat.
I was in the pantry stocking fresh linens when I heard the private elevator chime.
"Alessandro, we need to talk about the Singapore restructuring," a cold, smooth voice echoed through the foyer.
I froze, clutching a stack of hand towels. Staff were strictly forbidden from being in the main living areas when family members visited. I turned toward the utility room, intending to scoop up Mia and lock the door, but it was already too late.
Mia, liberated from her play zone because Vance had temporarily left a latch unhooked during a maintenance check, was already exploring.
By the time I reached the doorway, Mia had crawled right out into the grand foyer, stopping dead in the center of the Persian rug where Alessandro and his uncle stood facing each other.
Marcus Vance stopped mid-sentence. His eyes lowered.
There, sitting on the priceless antique carpet in a pink romper covered in small ducks, was an eight-month-old baby, happily chewing on a rattle.
Marcus slowly turned his gaze to Alessandro. A slow, predatory smile spread across his weathered face.
"Well, well," Marcus murmured, his voice dripping with false amusement. "I knew your corporate strategies were unconventional, nephew, but I wasn't aware you had expanded into running an unauthorized daycare out of the executive suite."
Alessandro didn't flinch. His posture became rigid, his expression turning into solid ice. "Marcus. This is a private matter. Leave."
"Is it private?" Marcus took a step forward, his eyes fixed on Mia, who looked up, blinked her large dark eyes, and let out a cheerful gurgle. "Because it looks suspiciously like a massive security liability. Who authorized an infant in a secure corporate facility? Is this the domestic help's brat?"
My blood ran cold. The word hit me like a physical blow. I stepped out from the pantry corridor, my voice shaking with suppressed fury. "She is not a brat."
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Marcus turned his head, his thin lips curling into a sneer as he looked me up and down—my simple staff uniform, my worn shoes, the panic in my posture. "Ah. The hired help speaks. Tell me, girl, does the board of directors know you’ve turned the fourteenth floor into a nursery? Because if I were to leak this little domestic sitcom to the financial press, the headlines would feast on your incompetence, Alessandro."
The threat hung in the air, sharp and poisonous. Marcus was looking for leverage—anything to undermine Alessandro’s control of the upcoming board vote on the Singapore merger. And my daughter was the weapon he intended to use.
