Chapter 2

I turned off my phone.

When the screen went completely dark, I felt like I'd severed the last connection to the past ten years.

No messages, no explanations. I just threw it into the box of electronic waste next to the workbench, mixing it with other parts waiting to be destroyed.

Carlo looked uneasy.

"Miss Moratti, the boss... he might look for you. The dinner is tomorrow night. According to the schedule, you should go to the Long Island estate this afternoon for the final security briefing."

"Cancel the schedule. Clean up here, then take a vacation. Paid, three weeks. Leave Las Vegas, go to a beach and sunbathe. Don't tell anyone where you're going."

"But the boss—"

"Carlo," I interrupted him, my voice very calm, "starting today, I no longer work for Ricardo Conti. And you no longer work for me. Understand?"

He opened his mouth, finally just nodding. "I understand. You... take care."

He turned to pack up the tools. I walked to the encrypted computer. The screen lit up, displaying seven different identity profiles.

Father was right—in families like ours, you always need to prepare an escape route that no one else knows about.

My fingers slid across the touchpad, clicking on the folder marked "Isabella Costa."

The woman in the photo had long chestnut hair, a gentle smile, and eyes without the constant vigilance and sharpness of Ella Moratti.

The background information showed she was an independent jewelry designer working between Milan and Florence. Her parents had died in a traffic accident years ago, leaving her an inheritance sufficient for a comfortable life and a small studio.

Clean, ordinary, unthreatening. Perfect.

I began typing on the keyboard, transferring funds from several hidden accounts under "Ella Moratti's" name through layers of encrypted channels, slowly feeding them into "Isabella Costa's" accounts in Switzerland and the Cayman Islands. This process would take time, but I had ten days.

Just then, the sharp sound of tires scraping the ground came from outside the warehouse.

Not one car. At least three, braking hard, stopping very close.

My fingers froze.

Carlo jerked his head up, looking at the closed roll-up door, his face pale. "The boss's men?"

"Impossible, not this fast." I said, but in my heart I knew this was probably true. Ricardo didn't like losing control, especially didn't like his "assets" acting on their own. I'd only turned off my phone two hours ago.

"Ella Moratti!" A man's voice penetrated the metal door. It was Marco. Ricardo's chief bodyguard, also his most loyal hound. "Open the door. The boss wants to see you."

The knocking became pounding.

"Miss Moratti!" Carlo's voice was panicked.

"Leave through the back door." I didn't look at him, eyes fixed on the roll-up door that was beginning to shake. "Now. Drive away, don't look back. Follow the anti-tracking route I taught you before."

Carlo bit his teeth, grabbed his bag, and ran quickly toward the dark door disguised as a shelf in the corner of the warehouse.

Meanwhile, the front roll-up door let out a harsh sound of twisting metal—the lock was forcibly broken.

The door pulled up halfway. Marco bent down and walked in, followed by four men in black suits. They all had guns, hands positioned where they could draw at any moment.

"Miss Ella," he began, his voice still polite but with undeniable pressure, "the boss wants to see you."

"Tell him I'm busy."

"I'm afraid this isn't an invitation." Marco took a few steps forward. His men spread out, seemingly casual but actually blocking all my possible escape routes. "The boss's order. Please cooperate and don't make this difficult for us."

I looked at him, then at the expressionless men behind him. "So, you're taking me by force?"

Marco didn't deny it. "Get in the car, Miss Ella. Things don't have to become unpleasant."

Twenty minutes later, I sat in the back seat of a black Escalade, sandwiched between two silent bodyguards.

Las Vegas's dazzling streetscape became blurred and distant. The car didn't head to the airport or my downtown apartment, but drove directly out of the city onto the highway leading to the suburbs. I knew the destination—the Conti family estate on Long Island.

That place was less a home than a fortress, a place I'd once been intimately familiar with but now found only cold—a cage.

An hour later, the car passed through the massive iron gates, drove down the long private driveway, and stopped in front of the main house.

I was "invited" out of the car. Marco walked ahead, two bodyguards following behind me. We didn't go to the living room or study, but headed directly to the west wing—what had once been my workshop and private space in the estate.

Ricardo had given me that place, letting me have a little "hobby" during breaks from working for him—designing jewelry that would never bear my name, or studying some antique mechanisms that interested him.

When we reached the familiar oak door, Marco stopped. He stepped aside, gesturing for me to enter.

I pushed open the door.

Then I froze in the doorway.

The room was empty.

Completely empty.

My design sketches that had covered the desk, the half-finished jewelry, the specialized precision tools, my collection of books about ancient locks and mechanisms... all gone.

The walls had been repainted, covered with light gold silk wallpaper. The room was furnished with brand new, ornately styled furniture that was obviously expensive, with a strong Eastern European flavor. The air was filled with an unfamiliar, cloying floral scent—not any perfume or essential oil I regularly used.

And on the wall directly facing the door hung a huge oil painting.

The woman in the painting was very young, with brilliant blonde hair and clear blue eyes, wearing a white lace gown, sitting in a garden, her smile pure and flawless, like an angel.

Sofia Rostov.

"Do you like this arrangement?" A voice came from behind me, calm, familiar, but now making my stomach churn. "Sofia personally selected it. She thought this room had good light, suitable for converting into her music room."

I slowly turned around.

Ricardo Conti stood in the corridor, wearing an impeccably tailored dark gray custom suit. He looked no different from a few hours ago in the Las Vegas hotel suite—calm, in control of everything.

And on his arm was the blonde woman from the painting—Sofia. She was smaller in person than in the painting, more delicate, like a fragile piece of porcelain. She wore a soft cream-colored knit dress, looking at me curiously with those innocent big eyes.

"Ricardo," her voice was sweet and soft, "is this Miss Ella Moratti? The very... capable advisor you often mention?"

Ricardo's gaze fell on me, his eyes assessing whether an object could still function properly.

"Yes." He said flatly to Sofia, then looked at me. "Ella, this is Sofia Rostov. My fiancée."

He emphasized the last three words.

Sofia gave me a perfect smile, with just the right amount of curiosity and a barely noticeable superiority. "Very pleased to meet you, Miss Ella. Ricardo says many of the family's tricky 'technical issues' are handled by you. It must be very hard work?"

She bit the words "technical issues" a bit differently, but her face showed sympathy.

I met her gaze, my face expressionless. "Serving the family is my duty, Miss Rostov."

"Please call me Sofia." She smiled even more sweetly, then turned to Ricardo, playfully shaking his arm. "Darling, didn't you say you'd introduce me to some of the uncles? Let's not keep the elders waiting."

"Of course." Ricardo patted her hand, then looked at me, his tone an undeniable command. "You come too, Ella. There are some 'family matters' that require your presence."

He finished speaking, then turned with Sofia toward the main hall. I followed behind them like a silent shadow.

The main hall was already filled with people. Most were core members of the Conti family and several older "uncles."

When Ricardo appeared with Sofia, the low conversations stopped, and everyone's eyes turned to them, many also landing on me with scrutiny.

An elderly man with graying hair, Uncle Antonio, a veteran of the Conti family, looked back and forth between me and Ricardo, a meaningful smile appearing on his face.

"Ricardo," he began slowly, his voice booming, "Ella has been by your side for many years, hasn't she? Sometimes we old folks can't help but think..."

"Uncle Antonio." Ricardo interrupted him, his voice not loud but instantly dropping the temperature in the hall by several degrees. His face showed no smile, his eyes sharp. "Some words might cause unnecessary misunderstandings. It's better not to say them."

His gaze turned to me, his voice low but clearly audible in the suddenly quiet hall.

"Ella knows her place very well. She's my most capable professional advisor, nothing more."

A subtle silence.

I felt all eyes pierce me like needles. I lowered my lashes, concealing all emotion, and when I lifted my face again, a standard, respectful smile was already on my lips.

"Uncle Antonio, you've misunderstood," my voice was steady, surprising even myself. "The boss and I have always maintained a purely professional working relationship. It's my honor to serve the Conti family."

For a very brief moment, I saw Ricardo's gaze seem to freeze. But that fluctuation disappeared too quickly, making me think it was an illusion.

The tense atmosphere in the hall seemed to ease somewhat. Sofia nestled against Ricardo, raised her chin, and gave me a victorious, reserved, and satisfied smile.

Ricardo leaned close to me, his voice low enough that only we could hear, deep like a beast growling in its throat.

"Very good. Remember what you just said."

He straightened up, his face returning to its usual calm. "Dinner should be starting soon. Sofia, let me introduce you to some cousins who manage the West Coast business."

They walked together toward the head of the long dining table. I was arranged at a seat at the very end of the table, far from the center, like an insignificant listener.

Dinner proceeded in an atmosphere of surface harmony but underlying calculation. People took turns toasting Ricardo and Sofia, speaking words of blessing and compliment. Sofia smiled shyly and happily, while Ricardo played the role of an attentive, reliable fiancé, occasionally speaking to her in low tones and serving her food.

I sat at the end, watching it all.

Ricardo seemed to sense my gaze. He suddenly looked up, his eyes cutting across the long table, precisely capturing mine.

He raised his wine glass toward me from afar, nodding slightly.

There was no expression on his face, but in those gray-green eyes, a cold approval was clearly reflected.

Like a master rewarding a hound that had just completed its orders and behaved particularly obediently.

I slowly raised my water glass, returning his gesture across the distance.

The corners of my mouth curved up, forming an impeccable, docile, and professional smile.

In my heart, I silently said toward that direction:

Enjoy your engagement dinner, Ricardo.

Cherish the last moments when you can control everything.

Because in ten days, when your most capable "weapon" completely disappears, I really want to see if you'll still be able to show that expression.