Vanessa claimed Sophie injured herself on a garage door, until Luca noticed the blood, the wheelchair, and one terrified look that told him his mother was missing.

The heavy oak door of the old sewing room clicked shut behind us, sealing out the faint, muffled murmurs of the guests drifting up from the grand foyer below.

The room smelled of mothballs, lavender, and old dust. It was a forgotten corner of the mansion, tucked behind the servants' linen presses—a windowless space that hadn't been regularly used since Luca’s grandmother passed away fifteen years ago.

Luca strode across the hardwood floor, his heavy leather shoes clicking rhythmically against the boards. He knelt beside the overturned armchair where Mrs. Moretti’s knitted blue shawl still lay crumpled in a heap.

"She was sitting right here," I whispered, stepping into the room and cradling my injured left elbow. The pain from where I had wrenched it stopping the service elevator doors was becoming a dull, throbbing ache that radiated all the way to my shoulder. "She told me she couldn't breathe, Sophie. She said they were coming for her."

Luca picked up the blue shawl, his long fingers trailing over the soft wool. When he lifted it, his eyes caught a dark, damp stain near the hem.

He brought it to his face, inhaling sharply.

"Chloroform," Luca whispered, his jaw clenching so hard muscles ticked dangerously along his cheekbone. "They sedated her right here in the house."

"Vanessa said it was just exhaustion," I stammered, feeling a fresh wave of guilt wash over me. "I... I believed her at first, Mr. Moretti. When Mrs. Moretti started wandering into the kitchens at night talking about men in the garden, I thought it was just the dementia. I didn't know."

Luca stood up slowly, towering over me in the dim light of the single brass desk lamp. He looked down at my bandaged arm, his gaze softening by a fraction—not with pity, but with a fierce, burning respect.

"You fought two men in the service corridor to keep them from putting her in the cart," Luca said, his voice dropping into a low, gravelly cadence. "You are a twenty-four-dollar-an-hour housemaid, Sophie. You had everything to lose, and you stood your ground against professionals."

"I couldn't just let them take her," I said, my voice shaking. "She’s the only person in this entire mansion who ever asked me how my mother’s cancer treatments were going."

Luca turned away, walking over to the far wall where an antique mahogany wardrobe stood against the wainscoting. He didn't open the doors; instead, he reached down and pressed his palm against the carved wooden baseboard near the left corner.

With a soft, pneumatic hiss, a hidden panel popped open in the floorboards.

I gasped, taking a step back.

Inside the recessed compartment sat a heavy steel lockbox, several encrypted satellite phones, and a handwritten ledger bound in black leather.

Luca knelt, unlatched the box, and pulled out a stack of loose papers and a digital voice recorder. He flicked the power switch on the recorder. A low, static hiss filled the room, followed immediately by a crisp, cold female voice that made my blood run cold.

"The old woman is becoming a liability," the recorded voice said. It was unmistakably Vanessa Bellini. "If she mentions the Zurich accounts or the transfer documents to Luca during her lucid intervals, the entire merger falls apart. Get her out of the house by Saturday. Make it look like a medical relocation."

A second voice—rough, gravelly, belonging to an unknown man—responded on the tape: "And the girl? The stout little maid who keeps hanging around the second-floor linen closet?"

Vanessa's voice laughed—a chilling, dismissive sound. "Pay her off or fire her. If she gets in the way, treat her like any other loose end."

The recorder clicked off.

Silence descended upon the old sewing room, heavier and more suffocating than before.

Luca didn't punch the wall. He didn't curse. He simply closed his eyes, his breathing slowing down into the rhythmic, terrifying composure of an executioner preparing to swing an axe.

"For eight months," Luca murmured, his voice barely audible over the hum of the heater, "I let her into my home. I let her sit at my table. I trusted her with my mother's care because I thought she wanted the same future I did." He opened his eyes, staring directly into mine. "I was wrong. And tonight, every single person who enabled her in this house is going to pay for it."

He stood up, shoving the voice recorder into his inner coat pocket, and reached for his phone.

"Mateo," Luca barked into the receiver as soon as the line connected. "Clear the guests out of the ballroom. Escort every single one of them off the property immediately, starting with the city councilmen and the prosecutors. Nobody leaves without a pat-down."

"And Miss Bellini, Boss?" Mateo’s voice crackled back over the secure line.

Luca looked toward the doorway, his expression hardening into absolute stone.

"Keep her in the red salon. Make sure she doesn't touch a phone, a bag, or a weapon. I’ll be down in two minutes."