Chapter 44 - The Ghost in the Ledger

From the dimly lit corridor emerged a tall, immaculate man in his early seventies. He possessed the same aristocratic jawline as Julian, the same high cheekbones, but his eyes were a pale, predatory blue, lacking the warmth and integrity of the man standing beside me.

Behind him stood three private security operatives in dark suits, their silhouettes rigid, hands subtly resting beneath their jackets.

"Julian," the elderly man spoke, his voice dripping with cultured venom. "You look remarkably like Alberto when he was foolish enough to defy me."

"Matteo Rossi," Julian growled, stepping deliberately in front of me, shielding my body entirely from the man's view. "You dare step foot here."

"I have as much right to the archives of our blood as you do, nephew," Matteo said, stopping just five paces away. He glanced toward me with a mocking sneer. "And you must be Francesca Vance. Or should I say, the former Mrs. Vance. My condolences on your previous marriage. Jason was a remarkably arrogant puppet, though ultimately quite useless. He allowed his petty vanity and that foolish socialite Nicole to ruin months of meticulous financial planning."

Anger surged through me, burning away every trace of fear. I stepped out from behind Julian's shoulder, holding my head high, meeting the old patriarch’s gaze without flinching.

"Jason was a coward," I said coldly. "And you are worse. You hide behind shell corporations and hitmen because you know you couldn't build what Count Alberto built if you were given ten lifetimes."

Matteo’s pale eyes narrowed into slits. "Sharp tongue. It’s no wonder Jason couldn't control you. But your pride won't save you tonight. Hand over the key, Julian. Sign the relinquishment of the holding company's voting shares. Do so, and you may walk out of Rome with your lives and your new bastard child."

The insult to our unborn baby was the final spark.

May you like

My fiancé let his friend chop off my mother’s waist-length

My husband spent the night with another woman

My husband brought his mistress to our nine-year-old daughter’s dance

Julian didn't hesitate. With lightning speed born of military training and ancestral fury, he closed the distance between them. Before the guards could even draw their concealed weapons, Julian grabbed Matteo by his bespoke silk tie, slamming him hard against the stone pillar.

"Name my child a bastard again," Julian whispered in a terrifying, deadly hiss, "and not even God will find your body in the catacombs."