Chapter 1 - The Butter Dish
“Don’t eat that, sir. She put something in it.”
Alessandro Romano stopped with the bread two inches from his mouth.
Six-year-old Emma Vega stood beside his chair in pink socks and an oversized sweater, squeezing a battered cloth doll against her chest. The little girl’s face was pale enough to frighten him more than the words.
“Emma,” he said slowly, “that’s a serious thing to say.”
“I know.” Her voice shook. “But I saw her.”
Morning sun spilled across the long breakfast table at the Romano estate. Espresso steamed beside Alessandro’s newspaper. Fig preserves glowed red in a crystal bowl. The butter looked soft, yellow, ordinary.
That suddenly made it worse.
“Tell me.”
Emma glanced toward the hall. “Last night I got water for Mama. Miss Isabella was in the kitchen. She had a little white bottle. She crushed something and stirred it into the butter. Then she fixed the top with the spoon so it looked pretty again.”
Alessandro set the bread down.
Isabella DeLuca was not a guest. In ninety-two days, she was supposed to become his wife.
“Did she see you?”
Emma nodded. “I dropped my cup. She smiled and said grown-ups have secrets.”
“What else?”
“She gave me money.” Emma swallowed. “I didn’t take it. She said Mama would never have to clean another room if I stayed quiet.”
A heel clicked in the corridor.
Emma’s eyes widened. She ran to the far end of the table and pretended to wipe crumbs with a cloth.
Click. Click.
The door opened.
Isabella walked in wearing cream silk and the easy smile Alessandro had trusted for three years. She kissed his cheek, then looked at the untouched bread.
“You’re not eating, darling?”
Alessandro pushed the butter dish toward her.
“Actually,” he said, “I was hoping you’d have some first.”
Her hand stopped in midair.
It was only a second. Maybe less.
But Alessandro had negotiated with men who lied for a living. He knew what fear looked like when it escaped before the face could hide it.
Isabella laughed too brightly. “Butter? At seven in the morning?”
“You eat it every Sunday.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“Then one bite.”
Across the room, Emma stared at the floor.
Isabella’s smile vanished.
And Alessandro knew two things at once: the child had told the truth, and the woman he loved had already noticed that Emma was still in the room.
Isabella turned her head.
“Emma,” she said softly. “Come here.”
The little girl did not move.
Alessandro rose so fast his chair scraped the marble.
“No,” he said. “She stays where she is.”
For the first time that morning, Isabella looked directly at him without pretending.
May you like
“Alessandro,” she whispered, “you have no idea what you’re doing.”
Then something crashed in the kitchen.
