Chapter 6 - The Eve of Execution
Friday night was a ghost town inside the main house.
The guests had been sent to hotels in downtown Milwaukee under the guise of an estate-wide carpet deep-cleaning before the wedding. Only essential staff remained—and every single one of them was a vetted Rienzi operative wearing domestic uniforms over Kevlar vests.
In the housekeeper’s cottage, Fatima was packing two leather bags.
Alessandro stood in the doorway, watching as she zipped a small pink coat over Amara’s shoulders. The toddler held her battered stuffed lamb under her arm, watching the dark windows with wide, serious eyes.
“A car is waiting at the rear service gate,” Alessandro told Fatima. “My men will escort you to my father’s compound in Ontario. You will stay there until I call you personally.”
Fatima turned, her eyes filled with deep concern. “Mr. Rienzi… please be careful tomorrow. That woman… she has no heart.”
Alessandro walked over, reaching into his coat pocket, and pulled out an envelope containing a certified bank draft and the deed to a small, sunlit house near Lake Geneva. He placed it into Fatima’s hands.
“This is for you and Amara,” he said quietly. “Regardless of what happens tomorrow, your debt to this house is paid ten times over. You saved my life.”
Fatima stared at the documents, tears spilling over her lashes. “I cannot accept this, sir—”
“You can, and you will,” Alessandro said gently. He crouched down in front of Amara, touching the small girl’s head. “Thank you, little bird.”
Amara reached out, wrapping her tiny arms around his neck, pressing her warm cheek against his collar. “Be safe, Mr. Alex,” she whispered. “Don't let the bad lady win.”
“She won't,” Alessandro whispered back.
Five minutes later, the tail lights of the armored sedan vanished down the dark forest driveway, carrying Fatima and her daughter away into the night.
Alessandro walked back to the main house.
Genevieve was waiting for him in the grand foyer, wearing a silk robe, holding two glasses of aged scotch. She looked relaxed, serene, almost triumphant as she handed him a glass.
“The house is so quiet tonight,” she murmured, swirling the dark amber liquid. “Just twenty-four hours left, darling.”
Alessandro took the glass, holding it up against the dim light of the chandelier. “Twenty-four hours,” he agreed.
They stood together near the bottom of the grand staircase, drinking in silence. Genevieve watched him over the rim of her glass—searching his face for any sign of suspicion, any crack in his composure.
He gave her nothing. He gave her the calm, steady mask of a man who believed he was marrying the love of his life.
“Do you ever regret it?” she asked suddenly.
Alessandro paused. “Regret what?”
“This life,” she said, gesturing vaguely toward the grand oil paintings and dark wood paneling. “The secrets. The violence. The constant watching over your shoulder.”
Alessandro looked down at her, his dark eyes penetrating hers so deeply that she instinctively took a half-step back.
“I don't regret protecting what is mine,” he said slowly, every word weighed like iron. “My father taught me that a man who cannot see the snakes in his own grass doesn't deserve to hold territory. When a threat enters my home, Genevieve, I don't negotiate with it.”
Her breath hitched slightly. Her fingers tightened around her glass. “What do you do?”
Alessandro smiled—a cold, terrifying expression that didn't reach his eyes.
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“I bury it,” he said softly. “Goodnight, Genevieve. Sleep well. Tomorrow is going to be a long day.”
He turned and walked up the stairs, leaving her standing alone in the grand foyer, staring after him as the ice in her glass slowly melted into nothing.
