A FOUR-YEAR-OLD MAID’S DAUGHTER BROKE THE ONE RULE SHE HAD BEEN WARNED NEVER TO BREAK—AND FOUND ALEJANDRO MORETTI DYING ON HIS STUDY FLOOR, SO WHY DID A HIDDEN CAMERA REVEAL THAT HIS WOULD-BE KILLER WAS STILL INSIDE THE MANSION? / Chapter 3 / 20

Chapter 3 - The Interrogation of the InnocentThe heavy oak doors swung open, and my mother walked into the study.

Mama looked smaller than usual. Her hair was pulled back in a neat, tight bun, her apron was spotless, but her face was the color of chalk. The moment her eyes landed on me standing beside Alejandro Moretti—the most feared man in the city—she looked as though she might faint right there on the Persian rug.

"Emma!" Mama gasped, her voice cracking in pure terror. She dropped to her knees, scooping me up into her arms so fast I almost dropped Barnaby. She crushed me against her chest, her whole body trembling violently. "Oh, sweet Jesus... Emma, what did you do? Why are you out of the basement? Did you touch anything? Mr. Moretti, I am so sorry—please, please don't hurt her, she's only four, she doesn't understand—"

Mama was sobbing now, her forehead pressed against my hair, babbling apologies and prayers in a tangled rush.

I buried my face in her neck, wrapping my arms around her tight. "I'm sorry, Mama! I had to! He was dying! He couldn't breathe!"

"Elena," Alejandro’s voice cut through the room like a silver blade.

Mama froze. She slowly raised her head, still shielding me with her body, keeping her eyes respectfully fixed on the Persian rug near Alejandro's polished Italian leather shoes.

"Sir," Mama whispered, her voice shaking uncontrollably. "Please. Discharge me. Fire me tonight. Take my wages for the month. Just... let us leave. Send us out the gates. Don't touch her."

Alejandro didn't answer immediately. He walked slowly around his mahogany desk, picked up a crystal decanter of water, and poured himself a clean glass, watching my mother with an unreadable, calculating gaze.

"Stand up, Elena," Alejandro said quietly.

Mama hesitated, then slowly rose to her feet, keeping me tucked securely against her hip.

"Do you know what happened in this room ten minutes ago?" Alejandro asked, taking a slow sip of water.

"No, sir," Mama whispered, her eyes glued to the floor. "We... we were in the basement staff quarters. The door was locked from the outside, just like always. I didn't hear anything until Ramos came banging down the hallway shouting that you had collapsed."

"And yet," Alejandro continued, his voice dropping an octave, "your four-year-old daughter appeared in my study carrying a specialized medical device—an EpiPen—and injected it directly into my thigh with the precision of a combat medic, saving my life before my security team could even figure out how to dial an ambulance."

Mama’s breath hitched. She looked down at me in absolute shock, her eyes wide. "Emma? You... you used your spare?"

"He was turning purple, Mama," I mumbled into her shoulder. "Just like I did."

Alejandro walked closer, stopping just a few feet away from us. The faint scent of bitter almonds still lingered faintly in the air around the shattered wineglass.

"Elena," Alejandro said, his tone shifting from cold authority to something dangerously sharp. "Who in this estate knew your daughter had a severe allergy?"

Mama blinked, confused by the sudden pivot in questioning. "W-what? Only... only the clinic downtown where we got the prescription. And... and the human resources file when I was hired."

"Human resources," Alejandro repeated, tasting the words like poison. He walked over to the intercom on his desk and pressed the button again. "Ramos. Get back in here. And bring security logs for the past forty-eight hours."

Within thirty seconds, the heavy doors clicked open again, and Ramos stepped back inside, flanked by two other guards. Ramos looked at my mother and me with an expression of pure, unadulterated venom, though he kept his eyes respectfully lowered toward Alejandro.

"You called, Mr. Moretti?" Ramos asked.

Alejandro didn't look at Ramos. He kept his gaze fixed on the mahogany surface of his desk, where his fingers tapped a slow, rhythmic tattoo against the wood.

"Ramos," Alejandro said softly. "Who had access to my private study tonight before the dinner party started?"

Ramos didn't hesitate for a second. "Only the cleaning detail, sir. And... and the catering staff from outside."

"Anyone else?"

Ramos paused, shifting his weight slightly. "Well... Mrs. Moretti came by earlier to drop off your evening papers."

A heavy, suffocating silence dropped over the room.

My mother stiffened against me. Even at four years old, I could feel the sudden, electric change in the atmosphere. The name Mrs. Moretti—Alejandro’s wife, a woman I had only ever seen in glossy fashion magazines left in the staff lounge—seemed to drop a freezing temperature into the room.

Alejandro stopped tapping his fingers.

He slowly raised his head, his dark eyes locking onto Ramos with a gaze so lethal it made the big guard take an involuntary half-step backward.

"My wife," Alejandro said, his voice entirely devoid of emotion, "is currently in Milan attending a charity gala. She has been out of the country for five days."

Ramos swallowed hard, his face turning pale. "Ah... of course, sir. I—I misspoke. I meant... perhaps one of the estate managers."

"No," Alejandro said quietly, standing up straight. He walked over to the bookshelf, reached between two leather volumes, and pressed a small, hidden toggle switch.

Click.

On the wall opposite the desk, a massive, high-definition motorized projection screen slowly slid down from the ceiling, humming softly in the quiet room.

"You see, Ramos," Alejandro said, turning around to face his head of security, his eyes gleaming like polished obsidian. "People often forget that an empire isn't built on trust. It's built on paranoia."