Chapter 2 - The Crushed Drawing
Domenico Bellandi did not move right away. He remained crouched on the polished marble of the reception hall, his broad hand shielding little Emma’s trembling back. The air around them was thick with the scent of expensive lilies, fine champagne, and the sudden, suffocating stench of malice.
Emma’s small fingers clutched the lapel of Domenico’s custom suit jacket. Her tear-streaked face was pressed into the notch of his collar, her tiny body shuddering with ragged, desperate breaths. In his right hand, Domenico held the ruined piece of poster board. The gold glitter was smeared, the red crayon hearts were torn down the middle, and Bianca’s spiked designer heel had left a sharp, dusty imprint right across the crude drawing of three figures holding hands: Daddy, Emma, and Mommy Clara in heaven.
Domenico stood up slowly. Standing six feet three inches tall, built like an iron pillar, he radiated an authority that silenced the whispered conversations across the crowded ballroom.
Bianca Vale swallowed hard, taking a half-step back. Her face had drained of color, though she tried to force a practiced, arrogant smile back onto her red lips. "Domenico, darling, don't be dramatic. The child was running around wild, ruining my dress. I merely dropped her bag by accident—"
"Quiet," Domenico said.
The single word didn't carry a shout. It was uttered in a low, dangerous growl that cut through the room like a blade.
Bianca’s eyes darted toward Helena Bellandi, who was standing five feet away with an icy, unreadable expression. Helena was Domenico’s older sister—the woman who had managed the Bellandi family affairs since their father passed. She was wearing a sleek silver silk gown, her hands folded calmly over her beaded clutch.
Domenico’s eyes shifted between the two women. His mind, honed by years of navigating high-stakes corporate warfare, dissected the micro-expressions before him. When Bianca pushed Emma, she had been cruel and haughty. When he stopped her, she had been angry. But when Helena spoke the words—She already had the staff pack the child’s bedroom—Bianca’s pupils had dilated in genuine, paralyzing terror.
And Helena knew. How did Helena know what was happening inside his private estate before he did?
"Matteo," Domenico called out without turning his head.
Instantly, his chief security officer stepped out from the perimeter shadows, his dark suit crisp and his stance military-sharp.
"Take Emma to the private lounge upstairs. Keep four men on the door. No one enters or leaves without my personal clearance," Domenico commanded gently, lifting Emma into Matteo’s steady, familiar arms.
"Daddy, don't leave me!" Emma cried out, her tiny hand reaching back toward him, her cheeks flushed bright red. "Please don't let the mean lady take my room!"
"I am right here, mia piccola," Domenico murmured, kissing her forehead softly. "Nobody is taking your room. Nobody is taking you anywhere. Daddy is fixing it."
Once Matteo disappeared up the grand staircase with the child, Domenico turned back to Bianca and Helena. The festive music of the engagement reception seemed to die completely.
"My estate," Domenico began, stepping closer to Bianca until he towered over her, "has thirty-two security guards, twenty-four-hour biometric locks, and a staff that has served the Bellandi name for twenty years. How did anyone pack my daughter’s bedroom without my knowledge?"
"Domenico, she’s lying!" Bianca stammered, her voice pitching up an octave as she pointed a manicured finger at Helena. "Your sister is trying to ruin our wedding! She’s hated me from the day we met! She’s trying to poison your mind against me so I don't get a seat on the board!"
Helena offered a thin, bitter smile. "Am I lying, Bianca? Should we call Mrs. Gable, the head housekeeper? Or should we ask the private transport team currently idling in two unmarked black vans behind the service gates?"
Bianca’s breath hitched.
Domenico’s jaw tightened until the muscles ticked. "Transport team?"
"I caught them forty-five minutes ago, brother," Helena said quietly, her grey eyes locking onto Domenico’s. "I arrived early to inspect the reception catering. I noticed two men in grey uniforms moving unmarked wooden crates out of the north wing. When I confronted them, they claimed they had direct written authorization from the master of the house to transport nursery furniture to a charitable foundation in Vermont."
"Vermont," Domenico repeated. The words tasted like ash.
"I took the liberty of securing the crates in the wine cellar," Helena added. "And I took Bianca’s master keycard."
Bianca took two frantic steps backward, her eyes wild, looking for an exit through the crowd of stunned socialites. But two of Domenico’s security guards had already quietly glided into place behind her, blocking the double glass doors to the terrace.
"Domenico, please!" Bianca gasped, reaching out to touch his arm. He didn't flinch, but the look in his dark eyes made her drop her hand as if she had touched red-hot iron. "I did it for us! That girl... she’s a constant reminder of Clara! Every time you look at her, you look backward! We are supposed to be building a new empire together! She belongs in a proper boarding facility where she can be educated quietly away from the press!"
"You touched my daughter," Domenico said, his voice dropping into a register that made even the seasoned security guards tense up. "You put your hands on Clara’s child. And you dared to stand in my house, eating my bread, planning to steal her away while I was standing thirty feet away."
"Domenico—"
"The reception is over," Domenico announced loudly to the room, not taking his eyes off Bianca. "My guests will excuse us. The vehicles will take you home."
The socialites didn't hesitate. Within ninety seconds, the grand hall cleared out, leaving only the shattered remains of Emma’s backpack, the crushed drawing, Domenico, Helena, Bianca, and four heavy security officers.
May you like
Domenico bent down, picked up the torn drawing once more, carefully folded it, and placed it inside his inner jacket pocket, right next to his heart.
"Now," Domenico whispered, looking up at Bianca with cold, calculating eyes. "We are going down to the cellar. And you are going to open those boxes yourself."
