Chapter 8 - The Enemy Sitting at Our Table
The person helping Victor was someone I had met many times.
Lorenzo’s attorney.
Marcus Bell.
He had represented the Duca family for twenty years.
He had attended our wedding.
He had congratulated me.
He had even helped protect my studio.
The betrayal felt impossible.
Until Matteo found the financial transfers.
Millions moved through shell companies connected to Marcus.
My mother recognized his signature.
“He was always close to Victor.”
Lorenzo’s face became unreadable.
“I trusted him.”
I touched his arm.
“That’s why he was dangerous.”
We decided not to confront him.
We let him think we knew nothing.
For two weeks, we fed him false information.
Every move we made was designed to reach Victor.
And Victor believed it.
The trap worked.
Marcus arranged a meeting.
Victor came.
Federal agents waited nearby.
But someone warned Marcus.
He disappeared.
Two hours later, my mother vanished.
I received a video.
She was tied to a chair.
Victor stood behind her.
“Bring me the ledger.”
I stared at the screen.
Lorenzo stood beside me.
“No.”
“We give him the fake one.”
“He’ll know.”
“Then we give him the real one.”
Lorenzo shook his head.
“That puts you in danger.”
“My mother is already in danger.”
He looked at me.
“I won’t lose you.”
“You won’t.”
“We don’t know that.”
“Then trust me.”
He held my gaze.
Finally, he nodded.
We went to the meeting point.
An abandoned theater.
Victor waited on stage.
My mother was beside him.
Marcus stood behind her.
Lorenzo handed over the ledger.
Victor smiled.
“You really gave it to me.”
“No.”
Lorenzo pressed a button.
The pages were blank.
Victor’s smile disappeared.
“The original is with the federal investigators.”
Marcus looked at Victor.
Victor turned on him.
“You said they didn’t have it.”
Marcus stepped back.
Lorenzo smiled.
“They never did.”
Then the police lights flooded the building.
Marcus pulled a gun.
Everything happened in seconds.
My mother ducked.
I screamed.
A shot fired.
Lorenzo moved in front of me.
Marcus dropped his gun.
Police surrounded him.
Victor tried to run.
Matteo tackled him.
For the first time, Victor looked afraid.
The evidence was enough.
Recordings.
Bank transfers.
Photographs.
Witness testimony.
The case was finally over.
Or so we thought.
Three months later, Lorenzo announced that he was leaving the criminal side of his family business entirely.
He turned everything legitimate.
Construction.
Hospitality.
Real estate.
Charity.
Some people laughed.
Others doubted him.
But he did it.
Then one evening, he took me back to the private beach where we first met.
The place looked exactly the same.
Except now there were no crowds.
Just us.
He stood beside the water.
“Do you remember this?”
“Yes.”
“You walked away.”
“I know.”
“You never looked back.”
I smiled.
“I was smart.”
He laughed.
“I used to think that was the worst day of my life.”
“Why?”
“Because I realized I wanted the one woman I couldn’t impress.”
I looked at him.
“And now?”
“Now I know I never needed to impress you.”
He reached into his pocket.
My heart stopped.
Another ring.
This one had a small emerald.
“Lorenzo...”
“Our first marriage was a strategy.”
“Yes.”
“This one isn’t.”
He got down on one knee.
“Amelia Hart, I fell in love with you because you were the only person in the room who didn’t care who I was.”
I covered my mouth.
“I don’t want a wife who fears me.”
He took my hand.
“I want a wife who challenges me, argues with me, laughs at me, and walks away when I deserve it.”
I laughed through my tears.
“Are you proposing again?”
“Yes.”
“This one is real?”
“Completely.”
I looked at the man who had once been Chicago’s most feared mafia boss.
The man who had changed.
The man who had chosen a different life.
“Yes.”
He slipped the ring onto my finger.
Then he kissed me as the sun disappeared beyond the lake.
For the first time, there was no danger waiting behind us.
Or so we believed.
Because when we returned home, an envelope was waiting on the table.
Inside was a photograph.
My father.
My mother.
Lorenzo’s parents.
And someone none of us recognized.
May you like
On the back was a handwritten message.
“Victor was never the beginning.”
