Chapter 50 - The Midnight Summons
Three weeks later, the rhythm of life at Bellagio had settled into an intoxicating, peaceful harmony. The global media had moved on, the corporate boardrooms in Milan and New York were stable under our combined leadership, and my pregnancy was progressing smoothly, filling our days with quiet wonder and preparations for the nursery.
It was nearly midnight on a Tuesday. The villa was silent, enveloped in the soft mist that rolled off Lake Como. Julian was asleep beside me, his arm draped protectively across my waist.
Downstairs, the sharp, distinctive chime of the secure private entrance telephone broke the stillness.
I slipped out of bed, pulling on a silk robe, intending to check before it woke Julian. Giancarlo was already in the grand hallway, looking at the blinking console with an expression of profound confusion and unease.
"Signora Francesca," Giancarlo whispered, his voice strained. "The perimeter gate has just registered an encrypted diplomatic clearance code."
Julian appeared at the top of the stairs, instantly awake, buttoning a dark shirt as he descended with silent, lethal grace. "What is it, Giancarlo?"
"A courier from the International Criminal Court in The Hague, sir," Giancarlo said, his hand trembling slightly as he held the receiver. "They are at the front gate. They insisted on delivering a dossier marked *Priority Zero* directly to Signora Francesca."
"To me?" I asked, a sudden chill creeping down my spine.
Five minutes later, an officer in a crisp dark blue uniform stood in the foyer, holding a metal briefcase handcuffed to his wrist. He produced a key, unlocking the case and retrieving a thick, sealed red folder bearing the insignia of Interpol and the Department of Justice.
"Signora Francesca Rossi-Vance?" the courier asked solemnly.
"Just Francesca Rossi," Julian corrected sharply, stepping to my side.
"Forgive me, Count Julian," the officer said, handing the file to me. "Before Jason Vance was transferred to the maximum-security wing at San Vittore prison this afternoon, he requested an emergency deposition under immunity protocols. He claimed that his betrayal eleven years ago was not orchestrated by Matthew Ross alone."
My heart skipped a beat. "What are you talking about?"
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"Jason swore under oath that your biological father—whom you believed died when you were an infant in Boston—is alive, Francesca," the officer stated, every word falling like a lead weight in the silent room. "And according to the flight logs seized from Geneva an hour ago... he has just landed a private jet at Lugano, less than thirty miles from this villa."
Before Julian or I could speak, the heavy wrought-iron gates of the outer courtyard groaned open in the darkness outside, and two pairs of headlights swept across the towering stained-glass windows of Villa Rossi.
