Chapter 4
The interior of the Bellamere mansion was silent, insulated from the summer heat by three-foot-thick walls of cut stone and heavy oak paneling. Inside the private second-floor library, the smell of aged leather bindings and beeswax polish replaced the scent of salt and rotting garbage.
Romina pushed open the heavy brass-handled doors, ushering Crispin and Etta inside.
"Sit on the leather settee, both of you," Romina said, her voice calm and measured. She walked to the private bathroom adjoining the study, returning with a warm, damp towel and a fresh linen shirt she had retrieved from Crispin’s room down the hall.
She knelt before the boy once more, unbuttoning his soiled collar and peeling the grease-stained cotton from his shoulders. Crispin sat stiffly, looking down at his small hands folded in his lap.
"Mom?" Crispin asked softly as she wiped the grime from his collarbones.
"Speak, Crispin."
"Why did cousin Aldric do that?" The boy’s voice was small, but the confusion had curdled into something sharper, something older than seven years. "Did I do something wrong?"
Romina paused, the warm towel resting against his neck. She looked into her son’s clear blue eyes, seeing the shadow of the brutal world she had spent a decade navigating to keep him safe.
"You did nothing wrong," Romina said firmly. "Aldric did that because he is weak. Weak men cannot build anything of their own, so they look for children and women to tear down so they can feel tall for five seconds. He wanted to see you cry. He wanted to see me break."
"I didn't cry," Crispin said, his chin lifting with fierce pride.
"I know you didn't," Romina replied, a ghost of a smile touching her lips as she pulled the clean, crisp shirt over his head and buttoned it up to the throat. "And that terrifies them more than any bullet I could put in their chests."
She turned to Etta, who was sitting cross-legged on the sofa, clutching a velvet cushion to her chest. Romina smoothed down her daughter’s blonde curls, kissing the crown of her head. "You were brave, little bird. But next time an animal snarls, you stay behind my coat. Understood?"
"Yes, Mommy," Etta murmured, burying her chin in the velvet. "Aldric is mean. Uncle Osbert is mean too."
"They are irrelevant," Romina said.
A sharp, double-knock sounded at the mahogany door.
"Enter," Romina called, her posture instantly resetting to that of the sovereign commander.
The door swung inward, and Renzo, her chief of security and longtime confidant, stepped inside. His face was unusually pale beneath his dark stubble, his hand resting on the encrypted tablet tucked beneath his arm.
"The children are alright?" Renzo asked, his voice low and respectful.
"They are clean," Romina answered. "What did Giacomo find on Aldric?"
Renzo stepped forward, casting a quick glance at the children before angling the tablet toward Romina so they couldn't see the screen.
"It wasn't just a petty insult, Romina," Renzo whispered, his American accent clipped and urgent. "Giacomo searched Aldric’s coat before throwing him in the bathhouse. We found an encrypted short-range transponder hidden inside the lining of his collar. It was activated forty seconds before he handed Crispin that box."
Romina’s eyes narrowed into razor-thin slits. "A transponder? Set to what frequency?"
"The Monticello syndicate out of Rhode Island," Renzo replied, his jaw tight. "The frequency pinged a mobile receiver parked half a mile off our private cove. The trash box wasn't just a prank to humiliate the boy, Romina. It was a visual marker. A confirmation that the terrace was active and that you were distracted."
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Romina stood up slowly, her hands smoothing the lapels of her suit.
"They didn't come to negotiate the docks," she said, the realization settling into her mind like ice water pouring into an engine. "They came to execute a breach."
