Page 133 of Double Trouble for the Mafia Prince
The guard at the southern entrance waves me through with a brisk nod.
My mind can't register anything beyond the haze of panic, thick and cloying and snaking all the way up my spine and into my brain.
Would Rafa stoop so low as to target my girls?
I drop the girls with their nanny and make my way to the west wing, my shoes loud on the polished floor.
When I reach the study, the door is already open.
Luca stands near the monitors, arms crossed.
His expression is carved from something older than marble.
Valentina sits on the edge of the desk, her spine straight, her jaw clenched so tight I can see the muscles ticking along her cheek.
I enter without knocking.
Something tells me I'm about to find out a whole lot of stuff that was better off being buried or dead.
"Tell me," I say.
Luca points to the screen.
It flickers once, then stabilizes.
A security feed from the south wing hallway.
The timestamp in the corner tells me everything I need to know.
It’s from 13:07. Today. Just before lunch.
A figure steps into the frame, dressed in maintenance gear.
Moves to a floor vent.
Kneels.
Adjusts something.
Leaves.
Fifteen seconds.
No hesitation.
No clear view of the face.
Valentina switches the feed.
Another angle.
This time I see the hand.
Gloved. Pale. Precise.
It slips something beneath the small console table that sits just outside the playroom.
I know that table.
