Chapter 47 -THE THREATENED WITNESS
The call came just after dawn, slicing through the quiet of the De Luca estate like a knife.
“Boss—Paolo Ferranti is missing.”
Lorenzo froze mid-stride in the hallway. Isabella, trailing behind him with a folder of morning briefs, nearly crashed into his back.
“What do you mean missing?” Lorenzo asked, voice low.
Niccolò stood rigid in the doorway, jaw clenched. “His wife sent an alert at five. He never came home. His phone was found smashed in their garden.”
Isabella’s stomach dropped. Paolo—the quiet, nervous accountant who handled the secondary ledgers—was the last man she expected to vanish. He’d always looked like he was waiting for disaster, but she never imagined it would arrive like this.
Lorenzo’s expression turned to stone. “Send a team to the neighborhood. Cameras, traffic lights, alleyways—everything.”
Niccolò nodded and left.
Isabella felt an unfamiliar chill crawl up her spine. A missing accountant wasn’t just a personal tragedy in this world—it meant a leak, a breach, a threat.
Lorenzo turned to her, eyes sharp. “Isabella. In my office. Now.”
She followed him in, heart thudding. He shut the door behind them and pressed his palms against the desk, breathing once—slowly—before speaking.
“Paolo sent a message to the secure line,” he said.
She blinked. “What kind of message?”
“Only four words.” His gaze pinned her. “‘Someone inside is helping them.’”
Her blood turned to ice.
Her throat tightened. “Helping who?”
“The Venturis.” Lorenzo straightened. “Someone inside my house is leaking information. Someone close.”
Her pulse hammered so loudly she thought he might hear it.
“And you think Paolo knew who?” she whispered.
His eyes didn’t move from her face. “Paolo knew something. Enough to get himself taken before he could tell me.”
She took a step back, breath catching.
Lorenzo’s jaw tightened. “I’m locking down the estate. No one goes in or out. Everyone is under suspicion.” A long beat. “Even you.”
Isabella’s mouth opened, but no sound came out.
Not denial. Not outrage. Just fear. Real fear.
Lorenzo’s expression softened—only slightly. “You’ll stay close to Niccolò today. For protection.”
Protection.
Containment.
She couldn’t tell which.
Within an hour, the estate erupted into controlled chaos.
Guards interrogating colleagues. Rooms searched. Phones checked. No one trusted anyone. Even the most loyal men watched each other with narrowed eyes.
Isabella walked through the corridors in a haze, Niccolò shadowing her every step.
“You look pale,” he muttered.
“It’s nothing.”
“Bullshit. Paolo disappearing isn’t nothing.”
She didn’t answer. Couldn’t.
Downstairs, the men were lined up in the courtyard—drivers, guards, accountants. All waiting for Lorenzo to question them personally.
The air felt brittle, ready to shatter.
Lorenzo stepped out onto the stone patio, and silence consumed the courtyard.
“Paolo Ferranti is missing,” he announced. “His last message indicates a traitor inside my home. Someone feeding intel to the Venturi.”
A few men exchanged alarmed glances. Most stared ahead, terrified.
Isabella’s pulse fluttered weakly.
“If I find the person responsible…” Lorenzo continued, voice lowering, “there will be no mercy. None.”
A cold ripple passed through the crowd.
Her breath snagged.
If Paolo suspected her—if he’d discovered the truth—the consequences would be catastrophic.
She barely heard the rest of Lorenzo’s orders as he began questioning the men one by one.
Two hours later, Paolo’s briefcase was found in a dumpster near the river.
Lorenzo drove there himself, taking Niccolò and—unfortunately—Isabella.
The alley reeked of oil and damp garbage. Two guards stood beside the metal case, their faces grim.
Lorenzo crouched and flipped the lid open.
Inside:
Paolo’s glasses
His notebook
A blood-speckled handkerchief
And a ripped scrap of paper
Lorenzo unfolded the paper.
His face changed—just slightly, but she saw it.
Saw the tightening.
Saw the suspicion.
Niccolò leaned in. “What does it say?”
Lorenzo folded the note and slipped it into his coat. “Irrelevant.”
Isabella felt dizzy. Sick.
“What does it say?” she asked softly.
Lorenzo didn’t look at her. “Something meant to mislead.”
A lie. She could hear it.
He wasn’t sharing the truth.
Because the truth implicated someone he wasn’t ready to confront.
Or someone he didn’t want to believe guilty.
Her chest ached.
Back at the estate, the lockdown intensified.
Lorenzo interrogated men in his office with ruthless efficiency. Voices rose. Chairs scraped. A gun slammed into a table. Isabella flinched every time someone shouted.
And then—
“Send Isabella in.”
Her body went cold.
Niccolò escorted her, and the second she entered the office, Lorenzo dismissed him.
The door shut.
They were alone.
“Sit,” he ordered.
She obeyed, fingers trembling on her lap.
Lorenzo stared at her for several long, suffocating seconds.
“Isabella,” he said quietly. “Paolo had access to sensitive accounts. If someone coerced him… or threatened him…”
He trailed off.
She swallowed hard. “Lorenzo… you don’t think I—”
“I think,” he cut in sharply, “that Paolo was scared enough to die for something. And I need to understand what that something is.”
Her heartbeat thundered.
“Is there,” he asked softly, dangerously, “anything you want to tell me? Anything at all?”
She shook her head. “No. I don’t know anything.”
Silence stretched between them like a wire ready to snap.
Then Lorenzo leaned back, gaze unreadable.
“You’re trembling.”
“I’m… overwhelmed,” she whispered. “Paolo was kind to me.”
Lorenzo exhaled slowly. “I know.”
Another silence.
Then—
A knock blistered the tension. Niccolò entered, face grave. “Boss. We found Paolo.”
Isabella’s muscles locked.
Lorenzo stood. “Alive?”
Niccolò hesitated. “No.”
Isabella covered her mouth.
Lorenzo’s voice darkened. “Where?”
“Abandoned fish warehouse. Near the docks.”
“Cause of death?” Lorenzo asked.
Niccolò swallowed. “Torture. He held out for hours.”
Lorenzo closed his eyes once—just once—before opening them, colder than ice.
“Did he say anything?”
Niccolò nodded. “He left a message. Carved into the floor with his fingernails.”
Isabella’s nerves snapped.
“What… what did it say?”
Niccolò looked between them, hesitating.
Then he said it.
“He wrote: ‘Inside the house.’”
Isabella swayed.
Lorenzo’s stare locked onto her immediately.
Not accusing.
Not yet.
But calculating.
Dangerously close to the truth.
“Isabella…” he murmured, voice barely human. “If Paolo died trying to expose someone—”
Her breath caught.
“—I will find out who.”
The promise in his voice was terrifying.
And he didn’t look away from her.
Not even once.