Chapter 2 - The Mafia Boss Offered to Pay My Brother's Medical Bills—But When I Refused His Money, He Revealed Why My Family's Name Was Connected to His Brother's Murder

At 12:07 A.M., Alessandro Moretti stood inside my tiny Chicago apartment, holding a seventeen-year-old photograph of my dead father.

Then he told me the man he trusted most might have arranged the fire that killed him.

"Vincent Gallo was supposed to die that night," Alessandro said.

I stared at him.

"Your bodyguard?"

His expression darkened.

"My father's adopted son."

I felt the blood drain from my face.

"The same Vincent who was sitting beside you at the restaurant?"

"Yes."

"The man who reached for his gun when I grabbed your wrist?"

Alessandro nodded.

I looked toward the front door.

Then at the photograph in his hand.

My father, Antonio Rossi, stood smiling beside Alessandro's older brother, Luca.

They looked happy.

Alive.

Completely unaware that three days later, both men would be dead.

I swallowed.

"And you think Vincent killed them?"

Alessandro looked down.

"I think he knows who did."

I stepped backward.

"Then why is he still working for you?"

For the first time, the most feared mafia boss in Chicago had no immediate answer.

He looked toward the window.

Rain tapped against the glass.

Then he said quietly, "Because until tonight, I didn't know how much he had lied."

I stared at him.

"And what happens now?"

Alessandro folded the photograph carefully.

His dark eyes met mine.

"Now we find out why someone wanted you at my table."

I shook my head.

"No."

His expression changed.

"No?"

I took a breath.

"We don't do anything."

He studied me.

I continued.

"You have an empire. You have bodyguards. You have lawyers and money and men who will do whatever you tell them."

My voice trembled.

"I have a sick brother and a hospital bill I can't pay."

Alessandro's jaw tightened.

I pointed toward the door.

"And I don't intend to get Marco killed because your family has been hiding secrets for seventeen years."

For several seconds, he said nothing.

Then he slowly placed the photograph on my kitchen table.

"You're right."

I blinked.

"What?"

He looked at me.

"You have every reason to be angry."

I laughed bitterly.

"That's an understatement."

His expression softened.

"I know."

Then he said something I hadn't expected.

"Your brother should never have been brought into this."

My throat tightened.

"Then leave him alone."

Alessandro looked toward the hospital statement beside my purse.

"I can't promise the people threatening him will."

My stomach twisted.

I stared at him.

"Are you threatening me?"

His expression changed immediately.

"No."

"Because it sounds like a threat."

He took a step backward.

"I'm telling you what I know."

I swallowed.

"Then tell me everything."

He nodded.

And for the next hour, Alessandro Moretti told me a story that changed everything I believed about my father, his family, and the night that had destroyed both our childhoods.

Seventeen years earlier, Alessandro had been seventeen.

His older brother, Luca Moretti, was twenty-four.

Their father, Don Vittorio Moretti, controlled a powerful criminal organization in Chicago.

Vittorio was feared.

Respected.

And according to Alessandro, incapable of admitting that anyone else might know better than he did.

Luca was different.

He had studied business at Northwestern.

He wanted to modernize the family's legitimate companies and separate them from the criminal operations that funded their expansion.

He believed the Moretti name could eventually mean something other than violence.

Their father considered that weakness.

But Luca refused to change his mind.

"He was the only person in that house who ever told my father no," Alessandro said.

I sat across from him at my kitchen table.

The clock above the stove read 12:31.

My apartment smelled faintly of coffee and the lavender detergent I bought when it was on sale.

Alessandro looked absurdly out of place.

His black suit probably cost more than three months of my rent.

His expensive watch caught the light every time he moved.

Yet he sat in my cheap wooden chair as though it were the most natural place in the world.

I crossed my arms.

"What does this have to do with my father?"

Alessandro looked down at the photograph.

"Antonio worked for one of our shipping companies."

"I know."

"He maintained equipment and supervised repairs at several warehouses."

I nodded.

"He was a mechanic."

"He was more than that."

My expression tightened.

"What do you mean?"

Alessandro took a breath.

"Your father noticed discrepancies in the shipping records."

I frowned.

"What kind of discrepancies?"

"Containers that appeared in the inventory but never reached their listed destinations. Equipment invoices that didn't match actual repairs. Payments made to companies that didn't exist."

My stomach twisted.

"Money laundering?"

"Among other things."

I stared at him.

"And my father discovered it?"

"Yes."

"Why didn't he go to the police?"

Alessandro hesitated.

"Because he was afraid someone inside the investigation might warn my father."

I swallowed.

"Then what did he do?"

"He went to Luca."

I looked down at the photograph.

My father's arm rested around Luca's shoulders.

Two men smiling.

Two men who had apparently trusted each other.

Alessandro continued.

"Luca had already begun questioning some of the transactions."

My heart pounded.

"So they worked together?"

"Yes."

"To expose your father?"

Alessandro looked at me.

"To find out who was using the company's warehouses to move illegal shipments."

I frowned.

"Wasn't that your father's business?"

"Some of it was."

His voice hardened.

"But Luca believed someone was using the family operation to conceal something even my father hadn't authorized."

I stared at him.

"What?"

Alessandro's jaw tightened.

"People."

For a moment, I didn't understand.

Then my stomach turned.

"Human trafficking?"

He nodded.

I covered my mouth.

"Oh my God."

Alessandro looked away.

"Luca found evidence that vulnerable young women were being transported through a network of businesses connected to our shipping routes."

I felt sick.

"And Vincent?"

His expression darkened.

"Vincent had access to those routes."

I stared at him.

"Was he involved?"

"That's what Luca was trying to prove."

I swallowed.

"And your father?"

Alessandro hesitated.

"My father claimed he knew nothing about it."

I looked at him.

"Did you believe him?"

A long pause.

"At seventeen, I wanted to."

I stared at the table.

For the first time, I understood why Luca and my father had become friends.

They weren't simply working together.

They were trying to stop something terrible.

And someone had killed them before they could finish.

I looked at Alessandro.

"Tell me about the fire."

His face changed.

For several seconds, he said nothing.

Then he leaned back.

"It was November."

His voice was quieter.

"Cold. Raining. Just like tonight."

I glanced toward the window.

Rain slid down the glass.

He continued.

"Luca called me that evening."

I swallowed.

"What did he say?"

"He told me he needed my help."

Alessandro looked down at his hands.

"He said he'd found something important."

My heart pounded.

"The red leather notebook?"

His eyes lifted.

"Yes."

I froze.

"So it existed."

He nodded.

"Luca kept notes in it. Names. Dates. Container numbers. Payments."

I stared at him.

"And my father knew?"

"Yes."

I swallowed.

"What happened next?"

Alessandro closed his eyes.

"Luca told me to meet him at Warehouse Seventeen."

My heart tightened.

"That was where the fire happened?"

"Yes."

He took a breath.

"When I arrived, your father was already there."

I could barely breathe.

"He was trying to convince Luca to leave."

I frowned.

"Why?"

"Because Antonio believed someone had discovered what they were doing."

My stomach twisted.

"And Luca refused?"

Alessandro nodded.

"He said he needed to retrieve the notebook from a locked office."

I stared at him.

"Then?"

His voice cracked.

"Then the lights went out."

For a moment, neither of us spoke.

Alessandro looked toward the window.

"I remember the sound of breaking glass."

His jaw tightened.

"Then smoke."

I swallowed.

"And the fire?"

"It spread faster than it should have."

My heart pounded.

"Someone started it."

"Yes."

He closed his eyes.

"I tried to reach Luca."

His voice trembled.

"But a steel door had jammed."

I watched him.

"Your father grabbed me."

My eyes filled.

"He pulled me toward the loading entrance."

Alessandro swallowed.

"I fought him."

I stared at him.

"I kept shouting that Luca was still inside."

His expression crumpled.

"But Antonio wouldn't let go."

A tear slid down my cheek.

"He got me outside."

Alessandro looked at me.

"And then he went back."

I covered my mouth.

For seventeen years, I'd imagined my father dying alone.

Trapped.

Afraid.

Now I was hearing that his final decision had been to return to a burning building for another man's son.

I whispered, "Did you see him again?"

Alessandro shook his head.

"No."

His eyes filled.

"I heard him shouting Luca's name."

For several seconds, he couldn't speak.

Then he whispered, "And then the roof collapsed."

I began crying.

Alessandro looked at me.

"I'm sorry."

I shook my head.

I didn't know what to say.

I wanted my father.

I wanted to ask him why he went back.

I wanted to tell him Marco had grown up.

That Mom had loved him until the day she died.

That we still remembered the way he sang badly while fixing the kitchen sink.

Instead, I sat in my apartment and cried in front of a man I'd been terrified of a week earlier.

Alessandro didn't touch me.

He didn't tell me to stop.

He simply waited.

And somehow, that made it easier to breathe.

After a while, I wiped my face.

"Why did the police call it an accident?"

Alessandro's expression hardened.

"The fire destroyed most of the evidence."

I swallowed.

"And your father?"

"He insisted it was an electrical failure."

"Was it?"

"No."

I stared at him.

"How do you know?"

Alessandro looked down.

"Because Luca had called me less than an hour before the fire and said someone was coming to kill him."

My heart stopped.

"What?"

He nodded.

I felt cold.

"Why didn't you tell the police?"

"I did."

I stared at him.

"Then why wasn't it investigated?"

"It was."

His jaw tightened.

"But my statement was dismissed as confusion caused by smoke inhalation and shock."

I shook my head.

"That doesn't make sense."

"No."

He looked at me.

"It doesn't."

I swallowed.

"And Vincent?"

Alessandro leaned forward.

"Vincent was supposed to be at Warehouse Seventeen that night."

My heart pounded.

"Why?"

"He was scheduled to supervise a late shipment."

I frowned.

"But he wasn't there?"

"No."

"Where was he?"

"According to him, my father reassigned him."

I stared at Alessandro.

"And you believed that?"

"For years."

He paused.

"Until I found a record showing Vincent had canceled the shipment himself."

My stomach tightened.

"When?"

"Two hours before the fire."

I stopped breathing.

Alessandro continued.

"He knew the warehouse would be empty of most employees."

I stared at him.

"Except Luca and my father."

"Yes."

"And you."

His expression changed.

"Yes."

I swallowed.

"Then why would Vincent want you there?"

Alessandro looked at me.

"That's the question I've been asking for seventeen years."

I stood and walked toward the window.

Outside, the street was nearly empty.

A delivery truck passed.

Somewhere in the distance, a siren sounded.

I wrapped my arms around myself.

"Why didn't you tell my mother?"

Alessandro remained seated.

"I tried to contact her after the funeral."

I turned.

"What?"

He nodded.

"She refused to speak to anyone from my family."

I swallowed.

"That sounds like Mom."

A sad smile crossed his face.

"She was angry."

I looked down.

"She had every right to be."

"Yes."

I stared at him.

"Did you ever try again?"

He hesitated.

"Once."

"When?"

"About six months later."

I frowned.

"What happened?"

"She told me to stay away from you and Marco."

My heart tightened.

I remembered my mother becoming frightened whenever an unfamiliar car parked outside our apartment.

The way she insisted we never answer the door without checking.

The way she kept our curtains closed after dark.

At the time, I thought grief had made her anxious.

Now I wondered whether she'd been afraid someone would come for us.

I looked at Alessandro.

"She thought your family was dangerous."

He nodded.

"She was right."

I stared at him.

The admission surprised me.

Then he continued.

"I respected her wishes."

I laughed bitterly.

"Until now."

His expression tightened.

"Until someone sent me your information."

I swallowed.

"Why would they do that?"

Alessandro looked at the photograph.

"I think they wanted to remind me of the fire."

I frowned.

"By using me?"

"Yes."

My stomach twisted.

"Why?"

His jaw tightened.

"Because whoever sent that file knows Antonio Rossi saved my life."

I stared at him.

"And they know I'd react if his children were threatened."

I looked at the hospital statement.

Then at Alessandro.

"Did you pay Marco's bills because you felt guilty?"

He hesitated.

"Partly."

My throat tightened.

"And the rest?"

He looked at me.

"Because your brother needs treatment."

I shook my head.

"That's not enough."

His expression changed.

"What do you mean?"

I stepped closer.

"You can't just appear in my life, tell me my father was murdered, and start paying my brother's bills."

Alessandro nodded.

"I understand."

"No, you don't."

My voice rose.

"Do you know what it feels like to owe someone money you can never repay?"

He looked at me.

I continued.

"Do you know what it's like to wake up every morning wondering whether the hospital will call and tell you your brother can't receive another treatment because you haven't paid enough?"

His face tightened.

I swallowed.

"Do you know what it's like to choose between groceries and medication?"

He didn't answer.

I shook my head.

"No. You don't."

For several seconds, the room was silent.

Then Alessandro said quietly, "You're right."

I stared at him.

He continued.

"I don't know what it's like to live the way you do."

His voice softened.

"But I know what it's like to lose a brother."

My anger faltered.

He looked down.

"And I know what I'd give to have Luca back."

For a moment, neither of us spoke.

Then he said something that surprised me.

"If you want the payment reversed, I'll arrange it."

I blinked.

"What?"

"The hospital payment."

He looked at me.

"If accepting it makes you uncomfortable, I'll cooperate with whatever process the hospital permits."

I stared at him.

He continued.

"I don't want you to feel trapped."

My throat tightened.

For the first time, I didn't know what to say.

I wanted to refuse.

I wanted to tell him I didn't need his money.

But I thought about Marco.

His pale face.

His tired smile.

The way he apologized whenever I paid another bill.

And I hated myself for how badly I wanted to accept the help.

Alessandro seemed to understand.

He stood.

"Take time to think."

I looked at him.

He continued.

"You don't owe me anything."

I swallowed.

"Nothing?"

"Nothing."

I studied his face.

Then whispered, "Men like you always want something."

He smiled sadly.

"Maybe I've spent too long surrounded by men who do."

Alessandro moved toward the door.

Then stopped.

"One more thing."

My stomach tightened.

"What?"

He looked at me.

"Don't tell Vincent about the photograph."

I stared at him.

"Why would I tell Vincent anything?"

"Because he may approach you."

My heart pounded.

"Why?"

Alessandro's expression darkened.

"Because if he's involved, he may want to know what your mother left behind."

I looked toward the wooden trunk.

My stomach twisted.

The letter.

The photograph.

The initials.

I swallowed.

"Do you think he knows about the notebook?"

Alessandro nodded.

"I think he may have spent seventeen years looking for it."

I stared at him.

"Why?"

"Because it could connect him to the operation Luca was investigating."

My heart pounded.

"And you think my mother had it?"

He hesitated.

"I don't know."

I looked toward the trunk again.

Alessandro noticed.

His expression changed.

"Isabella."

I looked at him.

"Did your mother leave anything else?"

I swallowed.

"Letters."

"Documents?"

"Some."

He studied me.

I crossed my arms.

"Don't."

His eyebrows drew together.

"Don't what?"

"Don't look at me like you're deciding whether to search my apartment."

For a moment, he seemed startled.

Then he nodded.

"You're right."

I swallowed.

"This is my home."

"I know."

"And whatever my mother left belongs to me."

"Yes."

I stared at him.

He took a step backward.

"I won't touch anything without your permission."

For several seconds, neither of us spoke.

Then I opened the door.

"Good night, Mr. Moretti."

He looked at me.

"Good night, Isabella."

He stepped into the hallway.

Then turned.

"And please call me Alessandro."

I raised an eyebrow.

"That sounds dangerously familiar."

A faint smile appeared.

"After tonight, I think we've moved beyond formal introductions."

Despite myself, I smiled.

"Good night, Alessandro."

His expression softened.

Then he walked away.

The next morning, I woke to twenty-three missed calls.

Seven from Chloe.

Four from Mr. Harris.

Three from an unknown number.

And nine from Marco's hospital.

My stomach dropped.

I immediately called the hospital.

A nurse answered.

"Lakeview Medical Center."

"This is Isabella Rossi. My brother is Marco Rossi."

There was a pause.

"Ms. Rossi, we've been trying to reach you."

My heart pounded.

"What happened?"

"Your brother experienced a complication overnight."

I sat upright.

"Is he okay?"

"He's stable now."

Relief nearly made me collapse.

"But his physician wants to discuss a change in treatment."

I swallowed.

"How soon?"

"As soon as you can come in."

I threw on jeans and a sweater.

Grabbed my keys.

And rushed out.

Marco looked exhausted when I entered his room.

He smiled weakly.

"Hey, Bella."

I hurried toward him.

"What happened?"

He shrugged.

"Apparently my body enjoys creating unnecessary drama."

I tried to laugh.

It came out as a sob.

He reached for my hand.

"Hey."

I sat beside him.

"Don't do that again."

He smiled.

"I'll put in a request."

I brushed his hair back.

Then his doctor entered.

Dr. Helen Carter was in her forties, calm, direct, and one of the few people who never made me feel foolish for asking questions.

She explained that Marco's condition had become more difficult to manage.

His current treatment wasn't working as well as they'd hoped.

The medical team was considering a different approach.

One that might involve a specialized program and additional evaluation.

I listened carefully.

Asked questions.

Took notes.

Then finally asked the question I dreaded.

"How much will it cost?"

Dr. Carter looked at me.

"The financial team will review coverage and assistance options with you."

I swallowed.

"Is there a chance he can get better?"

She looked toward Marco.

Then back at me.

"There are still treatment options."

My eyes filled.

"But I want to be honest. His situation is serious."

I nodded.

I appreciated her honesty.

Even when it hurt.

After the doctor left, Marco looked at me.

"Bella."

I forced a smile.

"What?"

"Promise me something."

My stomach tightened.

"What?"

"Don't do anything stupid to pay for this."

I laughed nervously.

"That's a broad category."

He didn't smile.

"I'm serious."

I looked down.

He squeezed my hand.

"I know you're scared."

My eyes filled.

"So am I."

I stared at him.

Marco swallowed.

"But I don't want you getting involved with dangerous people because you think it's the only way to save me."

My heart stopped.

I looked up.

"What?"

His expression changed.

"Why are you looking at me like that?"

I swallowed.

"Who told you about dangerous people?"

Marco frowned.

"Nobody."

I stared at him.

He continued.

"I just know how desperate things have gotten."

I forced myself to breathe.

Then he said something that made my stomach twist.

"Besides, some guy came by yesterday asking about Dad."

I froze.

"What?"

Marco looked confused.

"An older man."

My heart pounded.

"What older man?"

"He said he knew Dad from work."

I stared at him.

"Did he give you a name?"

Marco hesitated.

"Salvatore."

My blood went cold.

Salvatore Greco.

The businessman who had been sitting across from Alessandro at table twelve.

The man who had disappeared.

I stood so quickly that my chair scraped across the floor.

Marco looked startled.

"Bella?"

I swallowed.

"What did he want?"

Marco frowned.

"He asked whether Mom left us a red notebook."

My heart stopped.

For several seconds, I couldn't breathe.

Then I whispered, "What did you tell him?"

Marco looked confused.

"I said I didn't know."

I closed my eyes.

Thank God.

Then he continued.

"He seemed disappointed."

My stomach tightened.

"Did he threaten you?"

"No."

I exhaled.

Then Marco added:

"But he told me something weird."

I looked at him.

"What?"

"He said if I wanted to know why Dad died, I should ask Alessandro Moretti what happened to the third man in the warehouse."

I froze.

"The third man?"

Marco nodded.

I stared at him.

Then he whispered:

"He said Dad and Luca weren't the only people who died that night."

I left the hospital room and immediately called Alessandro.

He answered on the second ring.

"Isabella."

I didn't bother with greetings.

"Salvatore visited Marco."

Silence.

Then Alessandro's voice changed.

"When?"

"Yesterday."

"At the hospital?"

"Yes."

I heard movement.

Then his voice became sharp.

"Is Marco safe?"

"He's in his room."

"Stay there."

I swallowed.

"Alessandro—"

"Isabella, please."

The word surprised me.

Please.

Not an order.

Not a threat.

A request.

I took a breath.

"Salvatore asked about the notebook."

A long silence.

Then Alessandro whispered, "What?"

I repeated what Marco had told me.

The red notebook.

The warehouse.

The third man.

For several seconds, Alessandro didn't speak.

Then he said something that frightened me.

"Don't let anyone take Marco out of that hospital."

My heart pounded.

"Why?"

His voice hardened.

"Because Salvatore was supposed to be dead."

I froze.

"What?"

Alessandro took a breath.

"Vincent told me Salvatore had been found murdered two days ago."

My stomach dropped.

I stared at the hospital corridor.

"That's impossible."

"Apparently."

I swallowed.

"Then why would Vincent lie?"

Alessandro didn't answer immediately.

Then he whispered:

"Because Salvatore knows something Vincent doesn't want me to hear."

Alessandro arrived at the hospital forty minutes later.

He came without Vincent.

Instead, he was accompanied by a woman in a dark blue suit.

She introduced herself as Rebecca Shaw.

An attorney.

Not a bodyguard.

I looked at Alessandro.

"Where's Vincent?"

His expression darkened.

"Not here."

I swallowed.

"Does he know you're meeting me?"

"No."

I stared at him.

Then looked toward Rebecca.

She spoke calmly.

"Ms. Rossi, Alessandro has asked me to help document what happened with Salvatore and make sure any concerns about your brother's safety are handled through appropriate channels."

I nodded.

For the first time, someone connected to Alessandro was talking about documentation and lawful protection instead of mysterious favors.

It helped.

A little.

Rebecca asked Marco several questions.

What Salvatore looked like.

When he'd arrived.

What he'd said.

Whether he had touched or threatened him.

Marco answered carefully.

Then Rebecca asked whether the hospital had visitor records or surveillance footage.

She explained that any available evidence should be preserved and provided to investigators through proper procedures.

Marco looked at me.

"Bella, what's going on?"

My throat tightened.

I sat beside him.

Then told him as much as I knew.

About Dad.

The warehouse.

Luca.

The fire.

Alessandro.

Marco listened without interrupting.

When I finished, his face was pale.

Then he whispered, "Dad saved him?"

I nodded.

Marco looked toward Alessandro.

For several seconds, neither spoke.

Then my brother asked:

"Did my dad suffer?"

The question broke something inside me.

Alessandro's expression changed.

He moved closer.

Then knelt beside the bed so he was at eye level with Marco.

"I don't know exactly what happened after he went back inside," Alessandro said quietly.

My eyes filled.

"But I know he was brave."

Marco swallowed.

Alessandro continued.

"He saved my life."

His voice cracked.

"And I've never forgotten him."

Marco looked down.

Then whispered, "Mom always said he was a good man."

Alessandro nodded.

"He was."

For a moment, nobody spoke.

Then Marco reached out.

Alessandro looked startled.

My brother offered his hand.

"Thanks for telling me."

Alessandro shook it.

And I realized that beneath the expensive suit and the dangerous reputation, there was a man still carrying the grief of a seventeen-year-old boy.

That afternoon, Rebecca helped us request additional information about the unauthorized hospital visitor.

She also explained how to report the suspicious contact and preserve the messages I'd received.

I forwarded everything.

The photographs.

The anonymous texts.

The hospital document Alessandro had received.

The message about the red notebook.

For the first time, the pieces were being gathered somewhere other than Alessandro's private files.

I felt relieved.

But I was still frightened.

Because I couldn't stop thinking about the third man.

Who was he?

Why had Salvatore mentioned him?

And why had Vincent lied about Salvatore's death?

Later, Alessandro found me standing beside a vending machine.

I was staring at a cup of terrible hospital coffee.

He approached slowly.

"Isabella."

I looked up.

"Hi."

He glanced at the coffee.

"That looks dangerous."

I laughed despite myself.

"It probably is."

A faint smile appeared.

Then his expression became serious.

"How's Marco?"

"Sleeping."

He nodded.

"Good."

For a moment, neither of us spoke.

Then I looked at him.

"Why did you pay his bills?"

Alessandro sighed.

"We talked about this."

"I know."

I swallowed.

"But I need to hear it again."

He studied me.

Then answered quietly.

"Because your father gave me seventeen years I might not otherwise have had."

My throat tightened.

He continued.

"I can't repay Antonio."

His eyes softened.

"But I can help his son receive treatment."

I stared at him.

"And what if I never forgive your family?"

His expression changed.

"You don't have to."

I swallowed.

"What if I never want to see you again?"

He looked down.

Then whispered, "I'll respect that."

My eyes filled.

"And Marco's treatment?"

"That won't change because of your feelings toward me."

For a long moment, I studied his face.

Then I said quietly:

"You're not what I expected."

A sad smile appeared.

"Most people aren't, once you know them."

I shook my head.

"Some people are worse."

He nodded.

"That's true too."

That evening, I returned home exhausted.

I locked the door.

Checked the windows.

Then sat on the floor beside my mother's trunk.

I spread the contents across the carpet.

Photographs.

Letters.

Old receipts.

My father's watch.

A faded scarf.

Nothing looked unusual.

But I kept thinking about the notebook.

Red leather.

Names.

Dates.

Evidence.

My mother had known something.

She'd left me a letter.

A photograph.

And a warning.

What if she'd left more?

I searched the trunk again.

Then again.

Nothing.

I was about to give up when I noticed something strange about my father's watch.

It was an old silver pocket watch.

The kind that opened with a small button.

I'd kept it for years.

But I'd never tried to repair it.

The hands had stopped at 2:13.

I frowned.

Two thirteen.

I turned it over.

The back was scratched.

A small engraved letter appeared near the hinge.

L.

I stared at it.

Then pressed the release button.

The watch opened.

Inside was a faded photograph of my mother.

I smiled sadly.

Then noticed something beneath the photograph.

A thin piece of folded paper.

My heart began pounding.

I carefully lifted the photograph.

Pulled out the paper.

And unfolded it.

There were numbers.

A series of letters.

And a handwritten message.

If the red book is lost, follow the blue line.

I stared at the words.

The blue line?

What did that mean?

I turned the paper over.

There was a name.

St. Catherine's.

My stomach tightened.

St. Catherine's.

The church where my parents had married.

The church where we'd held my father's memorial service.

The church my mother visited every Sunday until she became too ill.

I stared at the paper.

Then my phone vibrated.

Unknown number.

A photograph appeared.

It showed Marco asleep in his hospital bed.

Taken from the doorway.

My blood went cold.

Then a message followed.

Stop asking questions about the warehouse.

I stood so quickly that the watch fell from my hands.

Another message arrived.

Alessandro cannot protect everyone.

My heart pounded.

I immediately called the hospital.

The nurse confirmed Marco was safe.

Then I called Alessandro.

He answered instantly.

"Isabella?"

My voice shook.

"Someone sent me a picture of Marco."

His tone changed.

"What?"

"From inside his hospital room."

A pause.

Then:

"Is he safe?"

"The nurse says yes."

"Good."

I swallowed.

"Alessandro, I'm scared."

For a moment, he didn't speak.

Then his voice softened.

"I know."

I closed my eyes.

"I don't know what to do."

He took a breath.

"Stay on the phone with me."

I nodded, even though he couldn't see me.

"Okay."

"Tell me where you are."

"Home."

"Is the door locked?"

"Yes."

"All right."

His voice remained calm.

"Rebecca will help coordinate with the hospital and investigators. We'll make sure the new message is preserved."

I swallowed.

"Okay."

Then he asked:

"Isabella, did you find something?"

My heart stopped.

I looked at the paper in my hand.

The numbers.

The message.

St. Catherine's.

I hesitated.

"Maybe."

His voice changed.

"What?"

I took a breath.

"My father's watch."

Silence.

Then Alessandro whispered:

"What about it?"

I looked down.

"There was a note inside."

For several seconds, he didn't speak.

Then he asked quietly:

"What does it say?"

I swallowed.

"If the red book is lost, follow the blue line."

A long silence.

Then Alessandro said something that made my stomach drop.

"Isabella, don't go to St. Catherine's alone."

I froze.

"How did you know?"

His voice was barely audible.

"Because Luca used to call it the blue line."

My heart pounded.

"What?"

Alessandro took a breath.

"The old freight route beneath the church property."

I stared at the paper.

He continued.

"It connected several warehouses before the city closed the tunnels."

My stomach twisted.

"Why would my father leave that message?"

Alessandro's voice hardened.

"Because he may have hidden something there."

I looked at the note.

Then whispered:

"The notebook."

A long pause.

Then Alessandro answered.

"Possibly."

At 10:46 P.M., I heard a noise outside my apartment.

Footsteps.

Slow.

Deliberate.

I froze.

Then someone knocked.

Three times.

My heart pounded.

"Alessandro?"

No answer.

I stepped closer.

"Who's there?"

A man's voice spoke.

"Isabella Rossi?"

I swallowed.

"Yes?"

"My name is Salvatore Greco."

My blood went cold.

I stared at the door.

The missing businessman.

The man Vincent claimed was dead.

He continued.

"I need to speak to you."

My hands began shaking.

I looked at my phone.

Alessandro was still on the line.

His voice became sharp.

"Isabella, don't open the door."

I swallowed.

Salvatore spoke again.

"Please."

His voice sounded desperate.

"I don't have much time."

I stared at the lock.

Then he said something that made my entire body go cold.

"I know where your father hid Luca Moretti's red notebook."

I stopped breathing.

Alessandro heard him.

For several seconds, there was silence on the phone.

Then my husband-to-be—though I didn't know it yet—spoke in a voice I'd never heard before.

Cold.

Controlled.

Terrifying.

"Salvatore."

The man outside went silent.

Alessandro continued.

"If you want to stay alive long enough to tell the truth, step away from Isabella's door."

I stared at the phone.

Then Salvatore whispered through the wood:

"Alessandro, your brother didn't die in the fire."

My heart stopped.

I looked toward the door.

Then at the photograph of Luca on my table.

Salvatore continued.

"Luca survived the warehouse."

I couldn't breathe.

Alessandro said nothing.

For the first time since I'd met him, he seemed unable to speak.

Then Salvatore whispered the words that changed everything.

"Vincent took him out before the roof collapsed. Your brother was alive when your father ordered him taken away."

I covered my mouth.

My knees weakened.

Seventeen years.

Seventeen years of grief.

Seventeen years of believing Luca Moretti had died beside my father.

And now a frightened man was standing outside my apartment claiming Luca had survived.

I stared at the phone.

"Alessandro?"

Silence.

Then his voice broke.

"Ask him where."

I swallowed.

I stepped closer to the door.

"Salvatore."

"Yes?"

My heart pounded.

"Where did they take Luca?"

A long pause.

Then he whispered:

"St. Catherine's."

I froze.

The church.

The blue line.

The note in my father's watch.

Everything was connected.

Then Salvatore said one final thing.

Something that made me realize the nightmare was only beginning.

"And Isabella, if you want to know why Marco is sick, you need to find out what was inside the containers your father tried to stop."

I stopped breathing.

My brother's illness.

The warehouse.

The shipments.

My father's death.

All of it.

Connected.

I looked down at the paper in my hand.

Then whispered:

"What was in those containers?"

Salvatore didn't answer.

Instead, I heard footsteps.

A sharp voice.

A struggle.

Then something heavy struck the hallway floor.

I screamed.

"Salvatore?"

No answer.

I backed away from the door.

Alessandro's voice exploded through the phone.

"Isabella! Get away from the entrance!"

I stumbled backward.

Then a low voice spoke from the other side of the door.

A voice I recognized.

Because I'd heard it at table twelve.

Vincent Gallo.

"Open the door, Isabella."

My blood turned to ice.

He paused.

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Then added softly:

"We need to talk about your father's watch."