Part 4: The House Had Been Lying
Part 4: The House Had Been Lying
Alessandro did not knock.
He crossed the garden in long, determined strides, Emma's tiny hand wrapped tightly around one of his fingers. The little girl had stopped talking. She simply followed him, glancing nervously toward the small stone cottage tucked behind the rose bushes.
Something was wrong.
He could feel it before he even reached the door.
The curtains were drawn in the middle of the afternoon. No lights. No sound except the wind rustling through the hedges.
He turned the handle.
Locked.
"When did Mommy go to sleep?" he asked quietly.
Emma frowned, trying to remember.
"Yesterday... maybe."
His heartbeat slowed.
Not with calm.
With danger.
"Did she wake up today?"
Emma shook her head.
"No. I bring water. Mama no drink."
Alessandro's stomach tightened.
He stepped back once.
Then drove his shoulder into the door.
The old lock shattered instantly.
The smell hit him first.
Medicine.
Fever.
And something far worse.
Neglect.
Sophia Rossi lay curled beneath a thin blanket on a narrow bed, her skin burning with fever while her lips had turned pale from dehydration. Empty prescription bottles littered the floor beside her.
She didn't move.
"Call Dr. Bell," Alessandro barked into his phone.
His voice echoed through the tiny cottage.
"Now."
Within seconds, security guards sprinted across the garden.
The mansion had responded faster to gunshots than it had to a dying employee.
That realization made Alessandro's jaw clench.
The family physician arrived less than fifteen minutes later.
After examining Sophia, he stood slowly.
His expression was grim.
"Another twelve hours..."
He looked directly at Alessandro.
"...and she probably wouldn't have survived."
Silence swallowed the room.
Emma climbed onto the bed, gently touching her mother's hand.
"Mama?"
No response.
The child looked toward Alessandro.
"Why Mama no wake up?"
For one terrifying second...
The feared Mafia boss had no answer.
Dr. Bell began hanging IV fluids while speaking quietly.
"She has severe pneumonia."
He glanced around the room.
"She's also dangerously malnourished."
Alessandro frowned.
"Impossible."
The doctor looked at him.
"Is it?"
"You pay every employee well."
"I've seen your payroll."
"But someone this sick doesn't become this way overnight."
He pointed toward the empty refrigerator standing in the corner.
"It looks like she's barely eaten for days."
Alessandro walked to the refrigerator.
Opened it.
Nothing.
Half a carton of milk.
One apple.
Expired yogurt.
Nothing else.
His eyes slowly moved across the tiny cottage.
The leaking ceiling.
Broken heater.
Cracked windows covered with tape.
This...
This was where one of his employees had been living.
Behind a mansion with twelve bedrooms.
Emma quietly tugged on his sleeve.
"Mister Moretti?"
He knelt beside her.
"Yes?"
She lowered her voice.
"I tried cooking."
She pointed toward a burned saucepan on the stove.
"But I make smoke."
"I not good."
The words landed like punches.
She was three years old.
Three.
While the adults around her had allowed her to become caretaker, cook, cleaner...
And laundress.
Alessandro stepped outside before anyone could see the rage building across his face.
The head of household staff, Victor Marino, hurried toward him.
"Boss, we didn't know she was this sick."
Alessandro stared at him.
"You inspected the employee cottages every week."
Victor hesitated.
"I... delegated."
"To whom?"
"The assistant supervisors."
"Names."
Victor swallowed.
"Linda Foster... and Carl Jensen."
Alessandro nodded once.
"Bring them."
Five minutes later, both employees stood trembling in the garden.
Neither understood why the boss himself had summoned them.
Alessandro asked only one question.
"When was the last time either of you checked on Sophia Rossi?"
Linda looked down.
Carl remained silent.
"No answer?"
His voice became frighteningly calm.
Finally Linda whispered,
"About... three weeks ago."
"And after that?"
"We assumed she was recovering."
"You assumed?"
Alessandro repeated quietly.
"My employee nearly died."
"Her daughter washed my clothes."
"And you..."
He looked from one face to the other.
"...assumed."
No one spoke.
No one dared.
He removed a small black notebook from his jacket.
The same notebook where he recorded every debt.
Every betrayal.
Every promise.
He wrote two names.
Linda Foster.
Carl Jensen.
Then closed it.
Neither employee understood what that meant.
The older guards did.
Their faces turned pale.
Because no one whose name entered Alessandro Moretti's black ledger had ever remained part of his organization afterward.
May you like
And as another black SUV rolled through the mansion gates, carrying someone whose arrival no one had expected...
Alessandro realized Sophia's illness was only the beginning of a far larger betrayal.
