Chapter 2 - THE INTAKE FILE
The silence in the room felt heavier than lead.
Sister Beatrice looked as though she had swallowed glass.
She reached into the pocket of her black habit and pulled out a worn manila folder.
Mr.
Vitelli,
she stammered,
her hands trembling so badly she nearly dropped the papers.
You need to see this.
Take it,
I told Nico,
not breaking eye contact with the little girl who still clung to my lapel.
Nico stepped forward,
snatched the file from the nun’s shaking fingers,
and flipped it open.
Boss,
Nico muttered,
his face draining of color.
Read it aloud,
I commanded.
Name,
Sophia Vitelli,
Nico read,
his voice tight.
Date of birth,
match.
Parents,
Alina Vitelli and Marco Vitelli.
Admitted to St.
Margaret’s on December twelfth,
six years ago.
Dropped off by an unidentified man with explicit instructions never to notify the father.
Funded anonymously through a blind trust every single month.
Who funded it,
I demanded,
standing up so fast the chair rattled against the linoleum floor.
The paper didn't say,
Sister Beatrice confessed,
tears pooling in the corners of her eyes.
It was wired from a Swiss account through three different shell companies.
Shell companies,
I repeated,
a cold fury rising in my throat.
The exact same structure my own corporation used.
Only someone inside my inner circle had access to those exact financial conduits.
Only someone who knew my corporate architecture inside and out.
Only someone like Matteo Rizzo.
Sophia looked up at me,
sensing the sudden shift in the room.
Are you mad at me,
Daddy,
she asked softly.
No,
my angel,
I whispered,
kneeling down once more and cupping her small cheek in my calloused palm.
Never you.
I pulled her into my arms,
burying my face in her chestnut hair.
She smelled like soap and old paper.
She smelled like home.
Nico,
I said without looking up.
Get the car.
Where are we taking her,
Boss,
Nico asked.
Home,
I said.
And call Matteo.
Tell him I want him at the penthouse in twenty minutes.
If he is even one second late,
burn his house down.
Nico nodded grimly and stepped out into the hallway.
Sister Beatrice tried to protest as I lifted Sophia into my arms.
Mr.
Vitelli,
legally we cannot just let you take her without a court order,
she stammered.
Look at her face,
Sister,
I said,
turning my cold,
dead gaze upon her.
She has my eyes,
she has my name,
and this orphanage is currently standing on five million dollars of my charity.
If you want to argue custody with me in a court of law,
be my guest.
The nun closed her mouth and stepped aside.
As I carried my daughter out through the heavy wooden doors,
the cold November wind hit my face.
The reporters across the street raised their cameras.
Flashbulbs popped in rapid succession.
I shielded Sophia’s face against my chest,
stepping into the back of the armored black Mercedes.
The door slammed shut,
sealing us in silence.
Drive,
May you like
I told Nico.
We are going home to settle some accounts.
