Chapter 2 - The Crimson Stain on the Living Room FloorMiles away in my Milan estate, the atmosphere was entirely detached from the brewing hurricane.
Vanessa Romano sat at the long marble dining table, laughing brightly as she poured expensive white wine into crystal glasses for her visiting relatives. Her brother’s family had come over for a lavish weekend lunch, treating my home as if it were their personal resort. They lounged across velvet couches, their shoes scuffing the imported Italian rugs, entirely oblivious to the ticking time bomb speeding toward them at five hundred miles per hour.
Upstairs, in the corner of the vast, sunlit living room, six-year-old Ethan sat curled into a tight ball against the base of a towering bookshelf.
His cheek was swollen, bruised a deep, angry purple where Vanessa’s rings had fractured the skin. A thin, dried trail of crimson blood crusted down the side of his neck, staining the collar of his shirt. In his small, trembling hands, he clutched a battered, paint-chipped little red toy car—the only tangible memory he had left of his mother.
A few feet away, Vanessa’s eight-year-old nephew, Leo, strutted around the room holding another one of Ethan’s favorite wooden blocks, laughing loudly as he taunted the bruised boy.
“Stupid crybaby!” Leo mocked, kicking a toy train across the hardwood floor. “My auntie says your dad doesn't even care about you! That’s why he’s always away playing boss!”
Ethan didn't cry out. He had learned a long time ago that tears were a currency of no value in this house. Whenever he cried, Vanessa would roll her eyes and whisper venomous threats about how annoying he was, warning him that if he bothered his father with complaints, his father would abandon him just like his mother did. So, Ethan swallowed his sobs, pressing his face into his knees, his small frame shaking silently.
Downstairs in the kitchen, Maria the housemaid finished packing a small bag of medical supplies and silently cursed herself for not stepping in sooner. She had seen the slap happen. She had heard the sickening smack that echoed off the high ceilings. She had watched Vanessa stand over the bleeding child, adjust her diamond bracelet, and tell him to stop whining before turning back to her guests with a bright, fake smile.
“It was only one slap,” Vanessa had snapped when Maria tried to murmur a protest. “The brat needed to learn some discipline. His father spoils him too much.”
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Maria knew that if she stayed in the house another minute, Vanessa would notice her tending to Ethan and punish her. So, risking her own skin, Maria had slipped out the back service door, flagged down a local taxi, and rushed Ethan to St. Jude’s Memorial Hospital under the pretext of a playground accident, terrified of what Vincent would do when he found out the truth.
And now, the truth was hurtling down from the alpine skies in a twin-engine AgustaWestland helicopter, cutting through the storm clouds like a blade.
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