Page 2 of Ivory Sins
Floor-to-ceiling windows filter warm, golden light into the space, showcasing a stunning city skyline view. Credentials and accolades adorn the walls, including my fancy law degree in the city’s prestigious law school. On a nearby shelf sits a framed photograph of myself with esteemed colleagues and judges.
On one side of the office, a bookshelf tower laden with law books, articles, legal tomes, and dog-eared copies of classic literature.
My sleek, modern desk, made of polished mahogany wood, is in immaculate order. On top of it, my laptop sits open with a lit screen. There is also a PC, and a few carefully arranged files, a silver penholder, and a simple, yet elegant clock decorates the table.
As I adjust in my chair, skimming through some case files, a single knock on my door shifts my focus. My brown eyes dart toward the door where I see my Father Luca Bellanti and my brother Matteo, both waltzing in with majestic steps.
Matteo's short black hair simmered in the soft lights, his cold gray eyes meeting mine in a split second. My 36-year-old brother wears his signature tailored gray suit impeccably.
Matteo used to be the family fixer. Now he's assumed the role of Don, taking over the position of our father.
My brother's analytical and perfectionist nature makes him the perfect candidate for the position of Don—head of the Bellanti syndicate. The new Don, standing at 6’1” always exudes an aura of confidence, power, and authority with his angular features and imposing frame.
Father walks toward my desk with a deliberate slowness, his cane thumping out a steady rhythm on the floor. He has alimp from an old bullet wound that affected his movements and posture—now; he relies on a cane for support.
But make no mistake, the man is still as deadly as a serpent.
Just like Matteo, Father's tattoos snake out from beneath his sleeves, hinting at a history etched on his skin.
As the two men halt behind my desk, I rise to my feet, a warm, courteous smile playing on my lips. “Father, Matteo,” I greet them with a respectful nod. “What're you—what’re you doing here?” I stutter, my eyes shifting across the two of them, my brows knitting together in bewilderment.
“Pleasure to see you too, sis,” says Matteo with a hint of sarcasm as he sits in one of the luxurious, cream-colored chairs in front of my desk.
Father does the same, a faint grin lining a corner of his lips. “Is it a crime to stop by and check on my daughter?”
I scoff, subtly scratching my forehead. “Absolutely not,” I say, settling back in my chair.
I stare at the two of them for a moment, squinting my eyes as I try to figure them out. I know my family all too well. Father doesn’t just stop by to check on anyone unless he has a reason to. The man is deliberate, and he does everything with purpose.
“Okay.” I chuckle lightly, breaking the moment of silence. “Why are you really here?” I ask, my gaze shifting between the two of them. “We all know there's a reason you ‘stopped by.’” I air-quote the phrase and lean back in my chair.
Father clears his throat, his hand resting on his cane as he looks right at me. “Well, let's just say that the recent events happening in your life these past month have us… concerned.” The slight pause comes when he steals a glance at Matteo before facing me again.
“Concerned?” My brows arch reflexively.
“The bloodied dolls on your doorstep are getting out of hand,” Matteo chips in, his stony gaze pinned on me.
My heart stops for a moment, but I don't flinch. I know he's right, this isn't random. But I'm so fucking afraid that if my family digs deep enough, they just might find the truth. I'm not ready for that yet.
In the past month, outside my door, I've stumbled upon dolls and toys stained with blood on three different occasions. The last time was just two weeks ago, and the toy was a replica of my old college car.
I'm too afraid to make sense of all of this because that would mean admitting that someone knows about my past. The mere thought of it alone makes my skin crawl.
“Are you really worried about some doll on my doorstep?” I ask, my tone casual and dismissive, my brows arched in disbelief. “C'mon, for all we know, a prankster is behind this,” I add, my confidence masking my concern.
“It happened three times, Olivia,” Matteo says, his tone stem and solemn. “Three times,” he repeats, his eyes never leaving mine. “This is no prankster.” He glances at Father, then adds, “We're dealing with a stalker.”
My breath logs in my throat, and my jaw tightens ever so slightly.
Matteo says, “Your life might be in danger and that's a risk we're not willing to take.” He draws a deep breath. “You need to be under 24-hour protection.”
I snicker, trying to play it cool, like my heart isn't hammering in my chest.
Father looks at me and says, his voice smooth. “I have the perfect solution for the situation.”
“And what's that?” I ask, curiosity taking the better of me.
“A bodyguard,” he declares, eyes pinned on me.
