Chapter 4 - The Night the Mafia Boss Took a Bullet Meant for Me—His Greatest Enemy Exposed the Secret That Could Destroy My Family, and I Had to Choose Whom to Trust
At 11:58 P.M., Alessandro Moretti stepped between me and a man holding a gun.
The shot rang out before I could scream.
Alessandro stumbled backward.
Blood spread across his white shirt.
And for one horrifying second, I thought the most feared mafia boss in Chicago was going to die in my arms.
"Alessandro!"
I caught him as his knees buckled.
His dark eyes found mine.
"Isabella," he whispered.
I pressed my hands against his chest.
"Don't move."
He tried to speak.
I shook my head.
"Don't you dare."
Behind us, Vincent Gallo laughed.
"Look at that. The mighty Alessandro Moretti, brought down by a waitress."
I looked up.
Vincent stood beneath the broken stained-glass window of St. Catherine's abandoned chapel.
He still held the gun.
His expensive gray suit was covered in dust.
And beside him stood the man I had spent seventeen years believing was responsible for destroying my family.
Don Vittorio Moretti.
Alessandro's father.
Older now.
Silver-haired.
His face marked by deep lines.
But unmistakably powerful.
He stared at his wounded son without a trace of sympathy.
"Your brother made the same mistake," Vittorio said.
Alessandro struggled to breathe.
I looked at the older man.
"What mistake?"
Vittorio's cold eyes settled on me.
"Choosing a Rossi over his own blood."
My stomach twisted.
I held Alessandro tighter.
And suddenly, everything my mother had hidden began to make sense.
The warehouse fire.
The red leather notebook.
The three missing days of my childhood.
The birth certificate.
The secret room.
And the reason Alessandro Moretti had brought me into his mansion.
None of it had been coincidence.
But the worst truth was still waiting beneath the chapel.
Twenty-four hours earlier, I had been standing inside Alessandro's mansion, staring at my locked bedroom door.
His voice came from the hallway.
"Isabella, when you were eleven, you disappeared for three days after the warehouse fire."
I couldn't breathe.
"What?"
"You were brought here."
I shook my head.
"No."
My voice trembled.
"That's impossible."
Alessandro didn't answer.
I stared at the door.
Then whispered, "I remember going to the hospital with Mom."
A pause.
"That was afterward."
I felt sick.
"Why would I have been here?"
His voice lowered.
"Because someone wanted to know what your father had given you before he died."
I looked toward the nightstand.
My father's watch was no longer there.
The police had taken it for examination.
But I remembered the paper hidden inside.
The blue line.
St. Catherine's.
The initials.
The message.
I swallowed.
"What did they think Dad gave me?"
Alessandro hesitated.
"The notebook."
I closed my eyes.
The red leather notebook.
Seventeen years of secrets.
And a family destroyed because of it.
I unlocked the door.
Alessandro stood outside.
He wore a black shirt with the sleeves rolled to his elbows.
His dark hair was disheveled.
He looked exhausted.
For a moment, we simply stared at each other.
Then I asked:
"Did you know I was here when I was eleven?"
He nodded.
My stomach dropped.
"Yes."
I stepped backward.
"And you didn't tell me?"
His expression tightened.
"I didn't know whether you remembered."
I laughed bitterly.
"That's not an answer."
He looked down.
"I was afraid of what it would do to you."
My anger rose.
"You don't get to decide what truth I can handle."
His eyes lifted.
I continued.
"You brought me into your home."
"Yes."
"You told me I would be safe."
"Yes."
"And then you let me walk through rooms where I was apparently held against my will as a child without telling me?"
His face crumpled.
"Isabella—"
"No."
My voice broke.
"Don't."
For several seconds, neither of us spoke.
Then Alessandro whispered:
"You're right."
I stared at him.
He continued.
"I should have told you before you came here."
I swallowed.
"Then tell me now."
He nodded.
And for the first time, he told me what had happened after the warehouse fire.
According to Alessandro, his father had ordered me brought to the mansion because he believed Antonio Rossi had hidden evidence with his family.
I was eleven years old.
My father had just died.
My mother was devastated.
And someone had decided that a grieving child might know where a notebook had been hidden.
I stared at Alessandro.
"Did they hurt me?"
His face tightened.
"I never saw anyone strike you."
I swallowed.
"That's not what I asked."
He looked down.
"I don't know everything that happened."
My stomach twisted.
"What do you know?"
He took a breath.
"I remember you crying."
My eyes filled.
He continued.
"You kept asking for your mother."
I covered my mouth.
For a moment, I could almost hear it.
A little girl's frightened voice.
Mom.
Where's Mom?
I closed my eyes.
Alessandro continued.
"My father told the staff you were a guest."
I laughed bitterly.
"A guest?"
His jaw tightened.
"I know."
I swallowed.
"Where did they keep me?"
He hesitated.
"An upstairs room."
My heart pounded.
"Which room?"
He looked toward the hallway.
Then whispered:
"The room beside Luca's study."
I froze.
The sealed room.
The photographs.
The blue mark beneath the drawer.
I stared at him.
"Why don't I remember?"
Alessandro shook his head.
"I don't know."
He took a breath.
"You were frightened. Grieving. There may be many reasons those days are unclear."
I swallowed.
He continued.
"But I remember what happened when your mother arrived."
My heart pounded.
"What?"
His eyes softened.
"She walked into the house and demanded to see you."
I could imagine it.
Maria Rossi.
Small.
Exhausted.
Heartbroken.
But furious.
Alessandro continued.
"My father tried to refuse."
I swallowed.
"And?"
"She told him she'd already contacted an attorney and the police."
My eyes filled.
He looked at me.
"She said if he didn't release you immediately, she would tell everyone what she knew about the warehouse."
I stared at him.
"And he let me go?"
Alessandro nodded.
"Yes."
For a moment, relief washed through me.
Then I looked at him.
"Why didn't he hurt her?"
His expression changed.
"Because she had evidence he couldn't find."
My stomach tightened.
"The notebook."
"Possibly."
I swallowed.
"Did you help her?"
Alessandro looked down.
For several seconds, he said nothing.
Then whispered:
"I opened the gate."
I froze.
"What?"
He looked at me.
"I was seventeen."
His voice cracked.
"I couldn't stop my father. I couldn't bring Luca back. But when Maria carried you outside, I opened the gate and told the guard to let her leave."
My eyes filled.
For a moment, neither of us spoke.
Then Alessandro whispered:
"I should have done more."
I stared at him.
He was right.
He should have.
But he had been a frightened teenager living under the authority of a dangerous father.
And for the first time, I understood that the night my father died had trapped more than one family in grief.
The following morning, I called Chloe.
She answered immediately.
"Bella?"
I sat on the edge of my bed.
"Can you come over?"
A pause.
"To the mafia mansion?"
I almost laughed.
"Yes."
She exhaled.
"Are you okay?"
I looked toward the window.
"No."
Her voice softened.
"I'm coming."
Chloe arrived forty minutes later.
She stepped through the front entrance carrying a paper bag of pastries.
Then stopped.
Her mouth fell open.
"Oh my God."
I smiled weakly.
"What?"
She stared at the chandelier.
"The ceiling."
I laughed.
"Yes."
She looked around.
"The staircase."
"Yes."
"The floors."
"Chloe."
She turned toward me.
"Your temporary boyfriend lives in a museum."
I nearly choked.
"He's not my boyfriend."
She raised an eyebrow.
"Sure."
I shook my head.
"Please don't."
She smiled.
Then her expression softened.
"Okay. What's wrong?"
I led her into the guest suite.
Closed the door.
And told her everything.
The three missing days.
The warehouse.
The birth certificate.
The red notebook.
The threats.
By the time I finished, Chloe was pale.
She sat beside me.
"Bella."
I looked down.
She took my hand.
"You need to stop trying to solve this by yourself."
I swallowed.
"I know."
"Seriously."
She squeezed my fingers.
"Your brother needs you alive."
My eyes filled.
"I know."
Chloe looked toward the door.
"And Alessandro?"
I hesitated.
"What about him?"
She studied my face.
"Do you trust him?"
I looked down.
The question hurt more than I expected.
Because part of me did.
I trusted the man who knelt beside Marco's hospital bed.
The man who told my brother stories about our father.
The man who admitted he was wrong when I challenged him.
But I didn't trust the secrets.
I didn't trust his family.
And I didn't trust the dangerous world he still controlled.
I swallowed.
"I don't know."
Chloe nodded.
"Then don't give him more trust than he's earned."
That afternoon, Rebecca Shaw called with news.
Salvatore Greco had survived the assault outside my apartment.
He was recovering under medical supervision.
And he had agreed to provide a statement to investigators.
I felt relief wash through me.
"Can I speak to him?"
Rebecca hesitated.
"Not yet. But he has provided information relevant to your father's case."
My heart pounded.
"What information?"
She took a breath.
"He says the red notebook contained evidence of criminal activity involving shipping routes and payments to several people associated with the Moretti organization."
I swallowed.
"Vincent?"
"His name appears in the statement."
My stomach twisted.
"And Alessandro's father?"
A pause.
"Yes."
I closed my eyes.
Then Rebecca continued.
"Salvatore also claims Luca survived the initial fire."
My heart stopped.
I sat upright.
"What?"
"He says Luca was removed from the building before the roof collapsed."
I swallowed.
"Then what happened?"
Rebecca's voice softened.
"That remains under investigation."
I stared at the wall.
Seventeen years.
Alessandro had spent seventeen years believing his brother died in the fire.
And now someone was saying Luca survived.
My heart tightened.
"Does Alessandro know?"
"Yes."
I swallowed.
"How is he?"
Rebecca hesitated.
"He's taking it hard."
I found Alessandro in the mansion's library.
He sat alone beside a window.
A glass of untouched whiskey rested on the table.
He wore a black shirt.
His sleeves were rolled up.
The tattoos along his forearms were visible.
He looked exhausted.
I approached slowly.
"Alessandro."
He looked up.
For a moment, he seemed surprised.
Then he nodded.
"Isabella."
I sat across from him.
"Rebecca called."
His expression changed.
"I know."
I swallowed.
"Salvatore says Luca survived."
Alessandro looked down.
"Yes."
For several seconds, neither of us spoke.
Then he whispered:
"I spent seventeen years believing he died because I couldn't reach him."
My eyes filled.
He continued.
"Every birthday. Every Christmas. Every time something good happened."
His voice cracked.
"I thought about him."
I swallowed.
"And now?"
He looked toward the window.
"Now I don't know whether he died that night or afterward."
I stared at him.
Then quietly asked:
"Do you think your father knows?"
His expression hardened.
"Yes."
My stomach twisted.
"Then ask him."
Alessandro laughed bitterly.
"You make it sound simple."
I looked at him.
"Isn't it?"
He shook his head.
"My father doesn't answer questions he doesn't want to answer."
I swallowed.
"Then stop treating him like someone who deserves your obedience."
Alessandro went still.
For several seconds, he stared at me.
Then he smiled sadly.
"You really don't understand who he is."
I held his gaze.
"Maybe not."
My voice steadied.
"But I understand what he's done to both our families."
His expression changed.
I continued.
"And I understand that you're thirty-four years old, Alessandro."
He looked down.
"You're not the frightened seventeen-year-old boy who watched that warehouse burn."
For a moment, he didn't speak.
Then he whispered:
"Sometimes I still feel like him."
My heart tightened.
I reached across the table.
Then stopped.
I wasn't sure whether I should touch him.
Alessandro noticed.
He looked at my hand.
Then gently placed his own beside it.
Not touching.
Just close enough that I could decide.
After a moment, I took his hand.
His fingers closed around mine.
And for the first time, the silence between us felt safe.
That evening, I received another anonymous message.
St. Catherine's. Midnight. Come alone.
I stared at the screen.
Then another message appeared.
Bring the watch, or Marco pays for your father's mistakes.
My stomach twisted.
I immediately forwarded it to Rebecca and the investigator handling the threats.
Then I called Marco.
He answered after three rings.
"Bella?"
I exhaled.
"Hey."
He sounded tired.
"What's wrong?"
I swallowed.
"Nothing. Just checking on you."
He laughed weakly.
"You're terrible at casual conversation."
I smiled.
"How are you feeling?"
"Like I got hit by a truck."
My throat tightened.
"But the good news is I finally convinced the nurse to bring me actual coffee."
I laughed.
"You're impossible."
"Runs in the family."
For a moment, we were quiet.
Then Marco whispered:
"Bella?"
"Yes?"
"Are you safe?"
My eyes filled.
I looked toward the window.
The mansion's gardens were dark.
Security lights illuminated the driveway.
I swallowed.
"I'm being careful."
He sighed.
"That's not the same thing."
I closed my eyes.
"I know."
He took a breath.
"Promise me something."
"What?"
"Don't get yourself killed trying to save me."
My throat tightened.
I stared at the phone.
Then whispered:
"I promise I'll do everything I can to come home."
I did not go to St. Catherine's alone.
I did not sneak out of the mansion.
And I did not bring a stolen piece of evidence to a man who had threatened my brother.
Instead, I met with Rebecca and the investigators.
I showed them every message.
Explained what Mrs. Bell had told me.
Described the blue mark beneath Luca's desk.
And told them about the note hidden in my father's watch.
For the first time, I felt as though I was helping uncover the truth without surrendering my safety.
But there was still something I hadn't told Alessandro.
Mrs. Bell's warning.
Luca didn't trust Alessandro with everything.
I wanted to know why.
So I asked Rebecca whether the investigators could examine the locked drawer in Luca's study.
She nodded.
"If there's relevant evidence, we can discuss the appropriate legal process."
I looked down.
"Good."
Then I asked another question.
"Can you find out whether my mother ever filed a report about being held at the mansion?"
Rebecca studied me.
"I can look into what records may exist."
I swallowed.
"And my birth certificate?"
She nodded.
"That too."
The next morning, Mrs. Bell came to my room.
She looked pale.
"Miss Rossi."
I stood.
"What's wrong?"
She closed the door.
Then whispered:
"I need to show you something."
My heart pounded.
"What?"
She reached into her pocket.
Removed a small brass key.
And placed it in my palm.
I stared at it.
"What's this?"
Her eyes filled.
"The key to Luca's desk."
I froze.
"The locked drawer?"
She nodded.
I looked at her.
"Where did you get it?"
She swallowed.
"Maria gave it to me."
My heart stopped.
"My mother?"
Mrs. Bell nodded.
"Seventeen years ago."
I stared at her.
"Why didn't you tell me?"
Her eyes filled.
"Because I was afraid."
I swallowed.
"Of Vincent?"
She nodded.
"And Don Vittorio."
I looked down at the key.
Then back at her.
"Why now?"
Her voice trembled.
"Because I saw Vincent outside the gates."
My stomach twisted.
She continued.
"And because I heard him asking one of the guards whether you had entered Luca's room."
I froze.
"What?"
Mrs. Bell nodded.
"He knows."
I stared at the key.
Then whispered:
"Then we need to give this to the investigators."
Her eyes filled.
"Yes."
Later that day, the drawer was opened under appropriate supervision.
I stood beside Rebecca while the investigator examined its contents.
Inside was a thin folder.
A small metal box.
And a photograph.
My heart pounded.
The photograph showed my mother holding me as a baby.
Beside her stood my father.
And a third man.
A man with dark hair.
A narrow face.
And familiar eyes.
I stared at him.
Then whispered:
"Who is that?"
Mrs. Bell looked at the photograph.
Her face drained of color.
"Dear God."
I turned toward her.
"What?"
She covered her mouth.
For several seconds, she couldn't speak.
Then whispered:
"That's Vincent's father."
My stomach twisted.
I stared at the photograph.
The man stood close to my mother.
Too close.
His hand rested on the back of her chair.
My father looked tense.
I swallowed.
"Why was he there?"
Mrs. Bell shook her head.
"I don't know."
The investigator carefully placed the photograph with the other evidence.
Then opened the folder.
Inside were old corporate records.
Shipping manifests.
Copies of bank transfers.
And a document bearing my mother's signature.
I leaned closer.
My heart stopped.
It was a birth certificate.
My birth certificate.
But something was wrong.
The name listed beneath Father wasn't Antonio Rossi.
It was another name.
Gabriel Gallo.
I stopped breathing.
For several seconds, I couldn't move.
Then I shook my head.
"No."
Rebecca looked at me.
"Isabella—"
"No."
My voice cracked.
"That's not right."
I stared at the document.
Gabriel Gallo.
Vincent's father.
The man Mrs. Bell said had known my mother before she married Antonio.
My stomach twisted.
I looked at Rebecca.
"That has to be fake."
She nodded slowly.
"It may be. We need to authenticate it."
I swallowed.
"Antonio Rossi was my father."
My voice broke.
"He raised me."
Rebecca's expression softened.
"Whatever this document means, it doesn't change who raised you."
My eyes filled.
I looked down.
Then whispered:
"Why would someone make this?"
No one answered.
But the question wouldn't leave me.
Was someone trying to make me believe I was related to Vincent?
Was the document part of an old blackmail scheme?
Or was there a truth my mother had never found the courage to tell me?
That evening, Alessandro found me sitting alone in the garden.
The sun was setting.
The air smelled of roses.
I held a cup of tea I hadn't touched.
He approached slowly.
"Isabella."
I looked up.
"Hi."
He sat beside me.
For several seconds, neither of us spoke.
Then he asked:
"Are you all right?"
I laughed bitterly.
"No."
His expression softened.
I looked at him.
"Did Rebecca tell you about the document?"
He nodded.
"Yes."
I swallowed.
"Do you believe it?"
He hesitated.
"I believe someone wanted that document found."
I stared at him.
"That's not what I asked."
He looked down.
"No."
I swallowed.
"You don't believe Gabriel Gallo was my father?"
He shook his head.
"I don't know."
My eyes filled.
Then Alessandro continued.
"But I know Antonio Rossi loved you."
I looked at him.
He held my gaze.
"And I know he died trying to protect you and Marco."
My throat tightened.
I swallowed.
"Why would Vincent's father be listed on my birth certificate?"
Alessandro looked toward the garden.
Then said quietly:
"Because Gabriel Gallo had a history of using forged documents to control people."
I froze.
"What?"
He looked at me.
"Identity papers. Employment records. Ownership transfers."
My stomach twisted.
"Birth certificates?"
He nodded.
"Possibly."
I stared at him.
Then whispered:
"So it could be a lie."
"Yes."
For the first time all day, I felt able to breathe.
Not because the mystery was solved.
But because Alessandro wasn't trying to tell me what to believe.
He was admitting what we didn't know.
That night, the investigators arranged a controlled operation at St. Catherine's.
I was not supposed to enter the chapel.
I was not supposed to confront Vincent.
And I was certainly not supposed to approach anyone carrying a weapon.
I agreed.
But the plan changed when a new message arrived.
A photograph.
Marco.
In a hospital wheelchair.
Beside him stood a man wearing a medical transport uniform.
My blood went cold.
Then a message appeared.
Your brother is leaving the hospital.
I immediately called Lakeview.
The nurse told me Marco was still on the ward.
But a transport request had been submitted under suspicious circumstances.
Hospital security had stopped it before he was moved.
I nearly collapsed.
Someone had tried to take him.
Someone who knew his name.
His condition.
His treatment schedule.
And his room.
I looked at Alessandro.
His expression was terrifyingly calm.
Then he turned toward Rebecca.
"Tell the investigators."
She was already calling.
I stared at him.
"Vincent did this."
Alessandro looked at me.
"We don't know yet."
I shook my head.
"Who else?"
He didn't answer.
Then my phone vibrated again.
Midnight. St. Catherine's.
A second message followed.
If Alessandro wants to know what happened to Luca, he should come himself.
I looked at him.
His face changed.
For a moment, I saw the seventeen-year-old boy who had watched his brother disappear into a burning warehouse.
Then Alessandro took a breath.
"Forward it."
I nodded.
He looked at Rebecca.
"Let the investigators know I'm willing to cooperate."
I stared at him.
"You're not going alone."
He looked at me.
"No."
I swallowed.
"Promise?"
He held my gaze.
"I promise."
At eleven thirty, I was waiting with Rebecca at a secure location away from the chapel.
Alessandro had gone to meet with the investigators.
My phone rested on the table.
Every few minutes, I checked the screen.
No messages.
No calls.
Nothing.
Then Rebecca's phone rang.
She answered.
Listened.
Her expression changed.
I stood.
"What happened?"
She held up a hand.
Then asked sharply:
"Is he injured?"
My stomach dropped.
"Rebecca?"
She listened.
Then looked at me.
Her face was pale.
"Alessandro has entered the chapel."
I froze.
"What?"
She swallowed.
"Vincent contacted him directly."
My heart pounded.
"He promised."
Rebecca nodded.
"I know."
I stared at her.
Then she continued.
"Investigators are responding."
I looked toward the door.
For a moment, I wanted to run.
To drive to the chapel.
To find Alessandro.
To demand an explanation.
But I stopped myself.
Because Marco needed me alive.
And because I refused to let Vincent use my fear to make me reckless.
I took a breath.
"Tell me what we can do."
Rebecca looked at me.
Then nodded.
"We wait for confirmation from the officers on scene."
At eleven fifty-eight, everything changed.
An investigator received a call from the chapel.
Vincent had taken Alessandro hostage.
He claimed to have evidence about Luca.
He demanded that I be brought to the building.
I stared at Rebecca.
"No."
She nodded.
"You're not going in."
My heart pounded.
Then another message arrived.
A live photograph.
Alessandro.
Kneeling beneath the chapel's broken stained-glass window.
Blood on his face.
Vincent standing behind him.
My stomach twisted.
I covered my mouth.
Then a voice message followed.
Vincent.
"Isabella, if you want Alessandro to live, come inside."
I stared at the screen.
My hands began shaking.
Then I heard another voice.
Older.
Cold.
Don Vittorio Moretti.
"Bring the girl."
My blood ran cold.
Alessandro's father.
He was there.
I looked at Rebecca.
Her expression had changed.
She was already speaking to the investigators.
For several seconds, I couldn't breathe.
Then the phone rang.
Unknown number.
Rebecca looked at the screen.
Then at me.
"Let the officers handle the call."
I nodded.
An investigator answered under controlled conditions.
Vincent demanded to hear my voice.
After a brief discussion, I was permitted to speak.
I swallowed.
"Vincent."
He laughed.
"Isabella."
My stomach twisted.
"Let Alessandro go."
A pause.
Then:
"Come inside."
I closed my eyes.
"No."
His voice hardened.
"Then he dies."
I forced myself to breathe.
"Why are you doing this?"
Vincent laughed bitterly.
"Because your father ruined everything."
My heart pounded.
"Antonio?"
"Yes."
I swallowed.
"He tried to stop you."
Vincent's voice changed.
"He stole something that belonged to my family."
I looked at Rebecca.
Then asked:
"The red notebook?"
Silence.
My stomach tightened.
Vincent whispered:
"Your mother kept it."
I swallowed.
"And you spent seventeen years looking for it."
He laughed.
"Very clever."
Then Don Vittorio's voice came through the phone.
"Enough."
My heart stopped.
The older man continued.
"Isabella Rossi, your mother made a mistake when she refused to cooperate."
My eyes filled.
"What mistake?"
His voice hardened.
"She thought she could protect her children by hiding the truth."
I swallowed.
"And what truth is that?"
A pause.
Then Vittorio whispered:
"That Gabriel Gallo wasn't your father. He was the man who forged your birth certificate to claim legal control over you."
I stopped breathing.
For several seconds, I couldn't speak.
Then I looked at Rebecca.
She stared at me.
The document.
The photograph.
The birth certificate.
All of it.
A lie.
Vittorio continued.
"Your father, Antonio Rossi, discovered the fraud."
My heart pounded.
"And?"
"He threatened to expose it."
I swallowed.
"Why would Gabriel want control over me?"
Vittorio hesitated.
Then said something that made my stomach turn.
"Because your mother had inherited shares in a shipping company."
I froze.
"What?"
His voice remained cold.
"Shares Gabriel wanted."
I stared at the phone.
"And he thought claiming to be my father would give him access?"
"Yes."
My stomach twisted.
Then I asked:
"Did you help him?"
Silence.
For several seconds, nobody spoke.
Then Vittorio answered.
"I made decisions that protected the family."
My anger rose.
"Did you help him?"
He didn't answer.
I closed my eyes.
Then Alessandro's voice came through.
Weak.
Strained.
"Isabella."
My heart stopped.
"Alessandro?"
He struggled to breathe.
"Don't come."
Tears filled my eyes.
I swallowed.
"Are you hurt?"
He didn't answer.
Then whispered:
"Stay safe."
A sharp noise.
Vincent shouting.
The call ended.
The next minutes passed in fragments.
Investigators moved.
Radios crackled.
Rebecca kept me informed as much as she could.
I sat frozen beside the table.
Then someone entered the room.
A police officer.
His expression was serious.
He spoke quietly to Rebecca.
Her face changed.
I stood.
"What happened?"
She turned toward me.
"There's been a shooting."
My knees weakened.
"Alessandro?"
She nodded.
My heart stopped.
For a moment, I couldn't breathe.
Then I whispered:
"Is he alive?"
Rebecca looked at the officer.
He nodded.
"He's being treated."
Relief hit me so hard I nearly collapsed.
I covered my mouth.
Then began crying.
By the time I reached the hospital, Alessandro was in surgery.
A doctor explained that he'd suffered a gunshot wound and that the medical team was working to stabilize him.
I listened.
Asked questions.
Then sat in the waiting room.
My hands were shaking.
Mrs. Bell arrived an hour later.
She hugged me.
I cried against her shoulder.
For a moment, I felt eleven years old again.
Frightened.
Waiting.
Praying someone I loved would survive.
Then I remembered my father.
The warehouse.
The fire.
The way he'd gone back for Luca.
And now Alessandro had been wounded while trying to stop the same men who had destroyed our families.
I closed my eyes.
"Please."
I whispered it again.
"Please let him live."
At four seventeen in the morning, the surgeon came into the waiting room.
I stood so quickly my chair scraped against the floor.
"Alessandro?"
The doctor looked at me.
"He survived the operation."
My knees weakened.
I covered my mouth.
Tears spilled down my cheeks.
The doctor continued.
"He's in serious but stable condition. We'll be monitoring him closely."
I nodded.
"Can I see him?"
"Not yet. But someone will update you when he's ready for visitors."
I sat down.
For the first time in hours, I could breathe.
Later that morning, Rebecca arrived with news.
Vincent Gallo had been arrested.
Don Vittorio Moretti was also in custody in connection with the events at the chapel and the ongoing investigation.
Salvatore had provided additional testimony.
And investigators had recovered documents from the chapel's old storage area.
I stared at her.
"The notebook?"
She nodded slowly.
"A red leather notebook was found among the materials."
My heart pounded.
I covered my mouth.
Seventeen years.
My father had died protecting evidence.
My mother had spent years hiding the truth.
And now the notebook had finally been recovered.
I swallowed.
"What does it say?"
Rebecca hesitated.
"The contents are being examined."
I nodded.
Then she continued.
"But there's something else."
My stomach tightened.
"What?"
She looked at me.
"Investigators found a photograph inside the notebook."
I froze.
"A photograph?"
Rebecca nodded.
"Of Luca."
My heart pounded.
I swallowed.
"From when?"
She took a breath.
"According to the date written on the back, it was taken six months after the warehouse fire."
I stopped breathing.
For several seconds, I couldn't speak.
Then whispered:
"Six months?"
Rebecca nodded.
I stared at her.
"Luca was alive?"
Her expression softened.
"That's what the photograph suggests. It still needs to be authenticated."
My heart pounded.
Then I asked:
"Where was he?"
Rebecca hesitated.
"At a medical facility outside Chicago."
I stared at her.
"What facility?"
She looked down at the report.
Then read the name.
St. Gabriel's Rehabilitation Center.
My stomach twisted.
I had heard that name before.
Years earlier.
From my mother.
She used to mention a man she visited every month.
A man who had been badly injured.
A man who couldn't remember his family.
I had assumed he was one of her charity cases.
Now I stared at Rebecca.
My hands began shaking.
Then I whispered:
"I think my mother knew Luca was alive."
That evening, Alessandro woke.
I was sitting beside his hospital bed.
He looked pale.
Exhausted.
A bandage covered part of his chest.
When his eyes opened, he seemed confused.
Then he saw me.
"Isabella."
My eyes filled.
"Hi."
He tried to move.
I immediately stood.
"Don't."
A faint smile appeared.
"You sound familiar."
I laughed through tears.
"Good."
He looked at me.
"Are you safe?"
My throat tightened.
I nodded.
"Yes."
He closed his eyes.
Relief softened his face.
Then he whispered:
"Marco?"
"Safe."
He exhaled.
For a moment, neither of us spoke.
Then I took his hand.
"Alessandro."
He looked at me.
I swallowed.
"Why did you go into that chapel?"
His expression changed.
He looked down.
"Vincent said he had proof Luca survived."
My heart tightened.
"And you believed him?"
"I wanted to."
I stared at him.
He swallowed.
"I knew it could be a trap."
My eyes filled.
"Then why?"
His voice cracked.
"Because for seventeen years, I've wondered whether my brother died believing I'd abandoned him."
I looked down.
He continued.
"And when Vincent said Luca might still be alive, I couldn't bear the thought of walking away again."
For a moment, I couldn't speak.
Then I whispered:
"You nearly died."
He nodded.
"I know."
My eyes filled.
I squeezed his hand.
"Don't ever do that again."
His expression softened.
"I'll try not to."
I shook my head.
"No."
He looked at me.
I swallowed.
"If we're going to find out what happened to Luca, we do it together."
His eyes filled.
I continued.
"With people who can help."
He nodded.
"Yes."
"And you don't get to make decisions about my safety without me."
A faint smile appeared.
"Agreed."
I looked at him.
Then whispered:
"And Alessandro?"
"Yes?"
My heart pounded.
"I'm glad you're alive."
His eyes softened.
For a moment, he looked almost shy.
Then whispered:
"So am I."
I stayed beside him until he fell asleep.
Then I stepped into the hallway.
My phone vibrated.
Unknown number.
I stared at the screen.
A message appeared.
You found the notebook. Good.
My stomach tightened.
Then another message arrived.
But the notebook won't tell you where Luca is now.
My heart pounded.
I looked toward Alessandro's hospital room.
Then back at the screen.
A third message appeared.
Your mother knew.
I swallowed.
Then the final message arrived.
And Isabella, the reason Marco is sick is hidden in the same records your father died protecting.
I stopped breathing.
For several seconds, I couldn't move.
Then another photograph appeared.
A medical report.
Seventeen years old.
The name at the top made my heart stop.
Marco Rossi.
My brother.
Six years old at the time.
Beneath his name was a handwritten notation.
Possible exposure — Warehouse Seventeen incident.
My knees weakened.
I stared at the report.
Marco had been six when our father died.
He had never been inside the warehouse.
At least, that's what I'd always believed.
Then I noticed another line.
Child present at secondary location during transport.
My blood went cold.
A secondary location?
Transport?
I read it again.
Then the final message arrived.
Ask Alessandro why his father kept your brother's medical file for seventeen years.
I stared toward the hospital room.
The man who had nearly died protecting me lay unconscious inside.
And I realized that saving Alessandro was only the beginning.
Because the truth about Marco might be more dangerous than anything we'd discovered about the warehouse.
And somewhere, possibly still alive, Luca Moretti held the final piece of a secret that had destroyed two families.
I looked down at the photograph.
May you like
Then whispered:
"Marco, what did they do to you?"
