Chapter 3 - The Roots of the Betrayal
Maria arrived at midnight. She was a frail woman with eyes like polished flint, a woman who had seen the rise and fall of families like mine for decades. She sat in my office, the smell of damp earth and old incense trailing her.
“You think your wife died because of your business,” Maria said, her voice a dry rasp. “You think it was a war of territory.”
“I killed the Morettis,” I said. “I wiped them off the face of the map.”
“You killed the dogs,” Maria corrected. “You never found the hand that held the leash.”
She leaned forward, pointing to the silver charm on my desk. “This charm was a key, Lorenzo. Your wife wasn't just a bride; she was the guardian of the Rossi inheritance—the true one. The business you run is a shell. The real assets were hidden in a trust meant to ensure that Isabella could never be touched. Elena died trying to secure that trust, but she knew they would come for the child. She paralyzed herself with fear, and she passed that fear to Isabella.”
My mind raced. “Who? Who had the authority to call the Morettis?”
Maria looked at the security camera mounted in the corner of my office. She slowly reached up and pulled a small, black box from her pocket—a scrambler.
“Your brother, Antonio,” she whispered. “He didn't want the empire. He wanted the legacy. He wanted to be the one to hold the key.”
The room felt as though it were shrinking. Antonio. My younger brother, the man who had been at my side for every funeral, every victory. He was the one who had confirmed the Moretti positions that night.
“He’s still alive,” I said, my voice barely audible.
May you like
“He is,” Maria confirmed. “And he knows about the child now. He knows about the girl who can wake the dead.”
I stood up, my hand going to the holster beneath my jacket. The mansion was no longer a home; it was a battlefield.
