Chapter 3 - Cracks in the Armor
By the following week, the atmosphere inside the estate had subtly shifted.
Clara returned every morning at precisely seven o'clock. She never brought flowers, she never sang cheerful songs, and she never offered pity. But under her stern, unwavering routine, Matteo began to transform.
Through the surveillance feeds, I watched a masterclass in quiet rehabilitation. Clara didn't push him to talk, nor did she coax him with treats. Instead, she treated him with an expectation of strength. When he dropped his fork during breakfast, she didn't rush to pick it up; she waited until he leaned over his wheelchair, stretched his upper body, and retrieved it himself. When he tried to turn his back to her during his reading hours, she sat beside him and read aloud from adventure novels, her voice steady and calm, ignoring his stubborn glares until he slowly turned his head to listen.
And then came the break in his silence.
It was a Tuesday afternoon. A pale autumn sun was breaking through the coastal fog, casting long golden light across Matteo’s bedroom floor. Clara was assisting him into his wheelchair to move him closer to the terrace.
“Hold the armrest, Matteo,” Clara instructed, positioning her hands beneath his shoulders.
Matteo reached out, his small fingers gripping the rubber handle. “I... I got it,” he murmured.
It was the second time he had spoken, but this time, his voice was clearer.
Clara didn't make a grand scene. She didn't gasp or praise him like a toddler. She simply nodded. “Good grip. Now push on three. One, two, three.”
Together, they executed the transfer smoothly. Once settled in his chair, Matteo looked up at Clara, his dark eyes searching her face.
“Where is my dad?” he asked softly.
Behind the glass of monitor four in the basement, my heart hammered against my ribs. I picked up the master microphone, my thumb hovering over the push-to-talk button, but I forced myself to stop. I needed to hear what my son had to say when he believed I wasn't listening.
“He’s in his office, working,” Clara replied, handing him a glass of water.
Matteo looked down at his lap, tracing the rim of his wheel. “He hates looking at me.”
“That’s not true,” Clara said, taking a seat on the wooden stool across from him. “He’s afraid.”
Matteo blinked, startled. “My dad isn't afraid of anything. He’s huge. He has guards with guns.”
“Big men with guns are often the most terrified people in the world,” Clara said calmly. “He’s scared because he loves you, and he doesn't know how to fix what happened to you. He thinks he failed you.”
Matteo was silent for a long time. The wind rustled the heavy drapes of the open balcony window.
“I remember the car,” Matteo whispered, his voice trembling as tears finally broke through his eyes. “I remember the noise. It was so loud, Clara. And Mommy stopped moving. I tried to wake her up, but my legs wouldn't work. And then there was a man... standing near the trees before the fire started.”
In the control room, the air in my lungs turned to liquid ice.
I leaned so close to the screen my forehead nearly touched the glass. The official police investigation into the car bomb had concluded it was a remote-detonated device triggered from a distance. The authorities had assumed the attacker was hidden far away from the estate perimeter.
“A man?” Clara asked gently, her body still, ensuring she didn't startle him. “What kind of man, Matteo?”
“He was wearing a black jacket with a golden crest on the sleeve,” Matteo whispered, tears running down his cheeks. “He was looking at his phone. He had a ringtone that played a strange song... like a clock ticking.”
My breath hitched in my throat.
A black jacket with a golden crest. A clock-ticking ringtone.
That wasn't a rival syndicate ringtone. That wasn't an external assassin.
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That was the uniform and custom tone reserved strictly for the inner circle of my personal security detail—the elite guards who guarded my mansion from the inside.
The man who had murdered my wife and paralyzed my son was still living under my roof, eating my food, and walking my halls.
