Chapter 4: The Judas Kiss

The silence that followed Lorenzo’s confession was heavier than the lead in his revolver. The revelation hung in the air like poison gas—Dante wasn't even his biological son, and now, the woman he had tried to "save" was carrying a child that proved his ultimate humiliation.

Dante stood frozen. The arrogance that usually defined him had been stripped away, replaced by a raw, hollow shock. He had spent his life trying to live up to—and then tear down—the legacy of a man who wasn't even his blood.

"Sterile?" Dante whispered, the word catching in his throat.

"A secret I took to my grave, or so I thought," Lorenzo said, his voice devoid of emotion. He looked at the revolver on the table, then back at Elena. "I gave you a sanctuary, Elena. I treated your mother like my own sister. I asked for nothing but your presence. And you... you brought the rot into the one room I thought was clean."

Elena couldn't speak. Her lungs felt as though they were filled with crushed glass. She looked at Lorenzo—the man who had been her savior—and saw only the monster the rest of the world feared.

"It wasn't a plan, Lorenzo," she finally choked out, her voice trembling. "It was... a mistake. A moment of madness."

"A year of moments," Lorenzo corrected her sharply. He looked at Dante. "And you. My 'heir.' I raised you to be a king, and you chose to be a thief. You stole from your own father’s table."

"You aren't my father," Dante spat, his shock curdling into a sudden, vicious rage. "You just said it yourself. You’ve been lying to me since I could walk. You used me to build an empire you couldn't even populate."

Dante reached for the gun on the table, but he was too slow. Marco, the enforcer, was behind him in a heartbeat, the barrel of a cold suppressed pistol pressed firmly against the base of Dante’s skull. The other guards moved in perfect unison, leveling their weapons at Elena.

"Don't," Lorenzo said softly to Dante. "I still have a soft spot for the boy I taught to ride a bike. Don't make me erase that memory."

Lorenzo picked up the heavy revolver. He didn't point it at Dante. He pointed it at the ceiling.

"Marco, take the boy to the cellar. Secure him. I need to decide if I’m going to kill him as a Moretti or as a nameless bastard."

"No!" Elena screamed, lunging forward, but a guard grabbed her by the shoulders, pinning her to the chair. "Lorenzo, please! It’s my fault, I provoked him—"

"Quiet, Elena," Lorenzo said, his eyes finally showing a flicker of pain. "You are still my wife. And because you are my wife, you have a different role to play in this."

He turned to Dr. Aris, who was trembling in the corner. "Doctor, you will stay in the guest wing. You will monitor her. If a single hair on her head is harmed, or if that child is lost before I say so, your family will join you in the ground. Do you understand?"

Aris nodded frantically.

"Take her to the East Wing," Lorenzo commanded. "Lock the doors. Cut the phone lines. And Marco?"

"Yes, Don?"

"Bring her mother to the study. We need to discuss the cost of her 'recovery'."

The East Wing was a beautiful prison.

Elena paced the length of the room, her mind racing. She was trapped, but the stakes had shifted. Lorenzo wasn't just angry; he was calculating. He was keeping the child. Why? If he was sterile, a child—even one fathered by Dante—was the only way to keep the Moretti name alive in the eyes of the other Mafia families. If the world thought the child was his, his legacy was secure.

But at what cost?

She looked out the window. The sun was setting, casting long, bloody shadows across the courtyard. She saw a black SUV idling near the gates. They were bringing her mother.

He’s using her, Elena realized, her stomach turning. He’s going to hold my mother’s life over my head to make me play the part of the happy, pregnant wife.

A soft click sounded at the door. It wasn't the guards.

Elena backed away as the door creaked open. It was Sofia, one of the younger maids who had always been kind to her. Sofia looked terrified, her face pale. She slipped inside and handed Elena a small, folded piece of paper.

"He told me to give you this," Sofia whispered. "Before they took him down to the dark."

Elena opened the note. The handwriting was jagged, written in haste.

Don’t let him break you. The guards in the cellar are loyal to the money, not the man. I’m getting out tonight. When the lights go black, get to the garage. If you stay, he’ll kill us both the moment the baby is born. Trust no one but the dark.

Elena looked at Sofia. "Is he okay?"

"He’s bleeding, signora," Sofia whispered. "But he’s smiling. It’s a scary thing to see."

Suddenly, a muffled boom echoed from the lower levels of the house. The floor vibrated. Somewhere in the distance, an alarm began to wail—not the steady tone of a security breach, but the frantic, uneven pulse of a fire.

The lights flickered, then died completely.

The backup generators didn't kick in this time. Dante had followed through.

Elena stood in the pitch-black room, her heart thumping in her ears. She had two choices: stay and pray for Lorenzo’s mercy, or run into the arms of a man who was just as dangerous as his father.

She felt the weight of the child in her womb—a tiny life caught between two monsters.

She reached for the door handle. It was unlocked.

Down the hallway, she heard the heavy thud of boots and the frantic shouting of guards.

"Find her!" Lorenzo’s voice roared from the grand staircase. "If she reaches the gates, kill the drivers! No one leaves this house!"

Elena slipped into the shadows of the corridor, her hand trailing along the cold marble wall. She knew the layout better than the guards—she had spent months memorizing the "blind spots" with Dante.

She reached the back stairs that led to the kitchen, but as she rounded the corner, a flashlight beam cut through the dark, pinning her like a moth to a wall.

"Going somewhere, Stepmother?"

It wasn't Dante. It was Marco. And he didn't look like he was following Lorenzo’s orders anymore. He looked like a man who had been offered a better deal.

"The Rossi family sends their regards," Marco whispered, raising his suppressed pistol. "A dead heir is better than a fake one."