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Chapter 9: The Liar
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2025-12-20 19:00:07I moved fast. I moved with purpose.
Giovanni ran behind me. He struggled to keep up. "Boss, wait! Maybe we should verify—" "Silence." I did not need verification. I needed answers. I reached the Blue Room. The guards saw my face. They saw the rage. They stepped aside instantly. One unlocked the door. His hands shook. I kicked the door open. It slammed against the wall. The wood cracked. Chloe spun around. She stood by the window. She held a velvet hanger. She was looking at the clothes I provided. She dropped the hanger. It clattered on the floor. "Lorenzo?" She trembled. "What is—" I crossed the room in two strides. I grabbed her arm. I did not control my strength. I yanked her toward me. "Who are you?" I snarled. She gasped. "I am Chloe! You know me!" "Liar." I pushed her back. She stumbled. She fell onto the expensive bed. She scrambled backward. She pressed herself against the headboard. "You played the part well," I said. I paced the floor. I felt like a tiger in a cage. "The poor daughter. The sick mother. The desperation. It was a masterpiece." "I don't understand!" Tears filled her eyes. "My mother is sick! I need to pay—" "Stop it!" I roared. The room shook. The crystal chandelier vibrated. I pulled my gun. I did not point it at her. I pointed it at the floor. I wanted her to see the consequence of lies. "I called the hospital," I said. My voice dropped. It became cold. Lethal. "We tried to pay the bill. We tried to buy your loyalty." "Thank you," she sobbed. "Thank you so much, I—" "They rejected the payment, Chloe." She froze. The tears stopped. Confusion replaced fear. "What? Why? They need the money." "They do not need money for a corpse." The silence in the room was absolute. She blinked. Once. Twice. "What?" Her voice was a whisper. "Drop the act," I spat. "Your mother is dead. She died three days ago. You knew this. You used her name to get into my house. You used a dead woman as a shield." I waited for the confession. I waited for her to drop the mask. I waited for the spy to reveal herself. It did not happen. Chloe did not speak. She did not move. Her face went pale. Not white. Grey. The color of ash. Her mouth opened. No sound came out. She shook her head. A small, jerky movement. "No," she whispered. "No. I spoke to the nurse. On Tuesday." "Today is Friday." "No." She clawed at her chest. She gripped the fabric of the grey dress. "No. She is waiting for the insulin. I have to... I have to get the money." I watched her. I am a master of lies. I know how liars breathe. I know how they blink. She was not blinking. Her eyes lost focus. Her pupils dilated. She was not looking at me. She was looking at nothing. "Mama?" she whimpered. The sound hit me like a physical blow. It was the sound of a child. It was the sound of a world ending. She did not know. I lowered the gun. The cold rage in my gut turned into something else. Something uncomfortable. "You didn't know," I said. It was not a question. She screamed. It was not a scream of fear. It was a scream of agony. It started low in her chest and tore through her throat. She collapsed forward. She curled into a ball on the silk sheets. She rocked back and forth. "No, no, no, no!" She hit the mattress with her fists. She tore at her hair. I stood there. The King of the underworld. The man who killed three men before breakfast. I stood there and I did not know what to do. I was ready to kill a spy. I was not ready to watch a woman break. I looked at the door. Giovanni stood there. He looked sick. "Boss," he whispered. "She didn't know." "Get out," I snarled at him. "But—" "GET OUT!" Giovanni slammed the door. I was alone with her. She wailed. It was a guttural, ugly sound. She gasped for air. She choked. "Mama, please. No. Please." She rolled off the bed. She hit the floor. She didn't seem to feel it. She tried to crawl toward the door. "I have to go," she choked out. "I have to go to her. She is alone. She is scared of the dark." She reached for the door handle. Her fingers slipped. She was too weak. She collapsed on the rug. The same rug where she slept last night. I holstered my gun. I walked over to her. I looked down. She was broken. She was useless to me now. A broken tool cannot work. A grieving cook cannot focus. I should throw her out. I should open the gate and let her run to the morgue. But then I remembered the risotto. I remembered the silence in my head when she was near. I looked at her trembling body. If I let her go, she never comes back. She buries her mother and she vanishes. I felt the hunger again. The selfish, black hunger. I knelt down. I did not offer comfort. I did not offer a tissue. I placed my hand on her shoulder. I pinned her to the floor. "You are not going anywhere," I said.
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