Chapter 8
Domenico burst through the heavy oak doors of the study, leaving Marco and Camilla tied in the dark. The hallway outside was lined with his most trusted capos, their fair, rosy faces turning instantly toward their boss.
"Lock that room," Domenico barked, his voice echoing with absolute authority. "Nobody goes in. Nobody comes out."
"Yes, Boss," a guard responded, immediately securing the door.
"Silvio!" Domenico roared, pulling his secure smartphone from his inner pocket as he sprinted down the long, carpeted hallway. He dialed his lead capo's number, his heart hammering against his ribs. The phone rang once. Twice. Three times.
"Pick up the damn phone, Silvio," Domenico hissed.
"Boss," Silvio’s voice finally crackled through the speaker. He sounded slightly out of breath.
"Where is my daughter?" Domenico demanded, his American accent sharp and unyielding.
"We are in the secure suite on the third floor, just like you ordered," Silvio replied. "The door is locked. I have four men in the hallway and two inside with me. She is safe, Dom. She’s watching cartoons."
Domenico let out a harsh breath, the crushing weight in his chest lifting slightly. "Has she eaten anything? Has she had anything to drink?"
"No, sir," Silvio said, sounding confused. "She said she was thirsty, so I ordered a glass of milk from the kitchen, but it hasn't arrived yet."
"Do not let her drink it!" Domenico shouted, his voice echoing off the marble walls of the corridor. "Do not let her consume anything! There is an active poison threat in the building. Lock the suite down. Shoot anyone who knocks on that door, even if they are wearing a staff uniform."
"Understood," Silvio said, his tone instantly shifting from a babysitter to a hardened killer. "The room is locked. Nobody gets to her."
Domenico hung up the phone. He reached the grand staircase, his mind processing the terrifying puzzle. The note had said 'Check the seating chart.' Marco had destroyed the acrylic seating chart when he crashed into it. But why mention the seating chart?
Domenico stopped at the top of the stairs, looking down into the ballroom. The cleanup crew had not yet arrived. The shattered acrylic panels, the unraveled ribbons, and the hundreds of guest-name cards were still scattered across the marble floor where Marco had fallen.
"The seating chart," Domenico whispered to himself. The blackmailer didn't just want him to read the note. The blackmailer wanted him to find something specific in the seating chart.
Domenico rushed down the marble stairs, his polished leather shoes skipping steps. He ran into the empty ballroom, dropping to his knees amidst the shattered plastic and scattered cards.
"Boss, what are you looking for?" a bodyguard asked, rushing over to help.
"Find my name," Domenico ordered, frantically flipping through the heavy cardstock squares. "Find my name, and find Livia’s name!"
The men scrambled over the marble, desperately searching through the hundreds of scattered cards. The bright, cinematic light of the ballroom mocked their frantic, terrifying search.
"I got it!" a capo shouted, holding up a pristine white card. "Domenico Valenti. Table One."
"Give it to me," Domenico demanded. He snatched the card from the man’s hand. He flipped it over.
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On the back of the seating card, written in the exact same elegant, black ink, was a second message.
'Did you really think a locked door could stop me, Domenico? Look out the window.'
