Chapter 4 - The Map of a Hidden War
The village of Bellfort Ridge—a quiet, wealthy hamlet nestled along the river—was supposed to be a safe haven. But as Beatrice walked down Main Street with the two girls flanking her, she felt every pair of eyes on them.
People knew who Marciano Bellfort was. They knew the black SUVs, the iron gates, and the whispered rumors of what happened to people who crossed him.
“Do you want an ice cream?” Beatrice asked, stopping in front of a small, cheerful confectionary shop with a bright blue awning.
Gia hesitated, looking up at the sky as if expecting an anvil to drop. “We’re not allowed to eat sugar without consulting the nutritionist Dr. Vance approved.”
“Dr. Vance is three counties away eating a donut right now,” Beatrice said cheerfully, pushing the door open. “Double scoops for everyone. Cones, not cups. If we’re going to rebel against the Bellfort industrial complex, we’re going to do it with waffle cones.”
Inside the shop, while the girls eagerly debated between mint chocolate chip and salted caramel, an older woman behind the counter leaned over toward Beatrice.
Are you the new one?” the woman asked quietly, wiping down the stainless steel counter.
“I am,” Beatrice said.
“God help you. My niece was the housekeeper here before the wedding. She left the night before the funeral.”
Beatrice’s ears perked up. “Why?”
The woman looked around nervously, lowering her voice. “Because Serena knew. She told anyone who would listen that Marciano was bringing dangerous men into their home, and that the business deals weren't just about freight. That crash on Route 9W wasn't weather. The brakes on that Mercedes were cut three miles before the bridge.”
Beatrice’s heart skipped a beat. Brakes cut. Not an accident at all.
“Did she tell the police?”
“The police report was written before the tow truck even reached the precinct,” the woman said bitterly. “When you own half the county judges, ice freezes over a lot of inconvenient facts.”
Beatrice looked back at the girls. Gia and Frankie were laughing—actually laughing—over a rogue drop of chocolate ice cream sliding down Gia’s thumb. It was the first time Beatrice had heard real, unscripted joy from them since she arrived.
And it made the dark web of violence surrounding their father feel infinitely more tragic.
When they returned to the estate late that afternoon, the atmosphere had shifted.
The front gates were open wide, and two unfamiliar black sedans were parked haphazardly in the gravel courtyard.
Beatrice’s stomach tightened. She ushered the girls toward the side entrance, handing them over to Mrs. Gable.
“Take them to the third-floor playroom,” Beatrice instructed the housekeeper in a low voice. “Lock the door behind you. Don't let anyone in until I come up.”
Mrs. Gable’s face paled, but she nodded, grabbing both girls by the hand.
Instead of going to her room, Beatrice walked straight down the grand hallway toward Marciano’s study. The heavy oak door was cracked an inch open.
Through the gap, she heard a voice she didn’t recognize—smooth, oily, and laced with casual menace.
“The board in Albany is getting impatient, Marciano. You said the upstate routes would be clear by Q3. Instead, your home life is a circus and you’ve got schoolteachers wandering around your private wings asking questions about old accidents.”
Beatrice froze.
Marciano’s voice came back, cold as a winter grave. “My home life is none of your concern, Sullivan. And if you ever mention my wife in this house again, you won't walk out these gates.”
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“Oh, we’ll see about that,” Sullivan laughed softly. “Accidents happen all the time on Route 9W. Just ask Serena.”
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