Chapter 4: The Ghost at the Gate
Dante didn't speak for several seconds after ending the call.
He stood beside my bed, staring at the photograph as though the dead man in it had personally challenged him.
I watched his fingers tighten around the paper.
“Who was he?”” I asked.
“His name was Enzo Bellini. He worked for my grandfather for almost thirty years.””
“And you said he's been dead for eleven?””
“Yes.””
“How did he die?””
“Three bullets to the chest. His body was recovered from a warehouse outside Boston.””
I stared at the photograph again.
“Then how could he have been standing outside your gate?””
“That is precisely what I intend to discover.””
Dante pulled his phone from his pocket.
“Vittorio, lock down the north entrance. Nobody enters or leaves without my authorization. I want every camera recording from the last seventy-two hours reviewed.””
He listened.
“And find out who had access to the old security archives.””
A pause.
“No, Vittorio. I don't care if you have to wake every man in this city. Find him.””
He ended the call.
I watched him put the phone away.
“You're talking about a dead man as though someone has stolen his identity.””
“Someone has.””
“Could it be my father?””
Dante looked at me.
“Your father has been missing for twenty-six years. Until I have proof, I won't rule anything out.””
I turned toward the window.
The estate grounds stretched beyond the glass, beautifully maintained lawns bordered by ancient oak trees. Several black vehicles stood near the fountain. Men in dark suits moved between them, communicating through small earpieces.
It looked peaceful.
But I was beginning to understand that appearances were the most dangerous thing about the Moretti family.
“Dante?””
“Yes?””
“Why did you marry Isabella?””
His expression shifted.
For the first time, I saw something other than anger or calculation in his eyes.
Pain.
“She was the only person who ever made me believe I could have a normal life.””
I waited.
“She wasn't born into our world. Her father owned a small bakery in Boston. She met me when I was twenty-four, and she hated everything about my lifestyle.””
“Then why did she marry you?””
“Because I promised her I would change.””
“Did you?””
He gave a humorless smile.
“I tried.””
“What happened?””
“Three years later, she was dead.””
His answer was so quiet that I almost missed it.
I looked at him.
“I'm sorry.””
He nodded, but his eyes had already returned to the photograph.
“Your father mentioned Isabella because he wants something from me.””
“What?””
“The ledger.””
I frowned.
“Why would he want you to have it?””
“He doesn't. He wants me to know that he knows what happened to her.””
Dante walked toward the window.
“And that means whoever is behind this has information my family has spent eleven years trying to bury.””
By late afternoon, Dr. Rossi finally agreed that I could leave the bedroom.
He wasn't particularly happy about it.
“You have a remarkable talent for ignoring medical advice,” he said, checking the dressing on my shoulder.
“I've been told that before.””
“Then perhaps you should start listening.””
Dante stood near the doorway, arms crossed.
“She's staying in the east guest suite.””
Dr. Rossi glanced at him.
“She needs supervision.””
“She'll have it.””
“And no stairs.””
Dante nodded.
“No stairs.””
The doctor looked between us.
“I have a feeling neither of you is going to make my job easy.””
He was right.
The east guest suite was larger than my entire apartment.
There was a sitting room, a private bathroom, a walk-in closet, and a balcony overlooking the gardens.
I stood at the entrance, speechless.
“Is this where visiting dignitaries stay?”” I asked.
Dante handed me a small remote.
“The room has an emergency call button.””
I stared at it.
“Wonderful. I've always wanted to live inside a luxury security facility.””
“It's temporary.””
“Everything seems temporary in your world.””
He ignored the remark.
“Your belongings have been collected from your apartment.””
I turned sharply.
“You went through my things?””
“My men retrieved what they could.””
“What does that mean?””
“Some items were missing.””
My stomach tightened.
“What items?””
“Your passport. Your mother's old photograph. And a small jewelry box.””
I went cold.
The jewelry box.
My mother had given it to me on my twelfth birthday, only a few months before she died.
It was made of dark cherry wood, with a tiny silver clasp.
There had never been anything particularly valuable inside.
Just a silver necklace, two old earrings, and a folded piece of paper bearing my mother's handwriting.
“What was on the paper?”” Dante asked.
I swallowed.
“I never opened it.””
His expression sharpened.
“Why not?””
“Because it was folded inside a small envelope. My mother told me to open it when I was old enough to understand why my father left.””
Dante went completely still.
“Do you still have it?””
“No. It was in the jewelry box.””
“When was the last time you saw the box?””
“Three weeks ago. It was on my bedroom dresser.””
Dante immediately took out his phone.
“Vittorio. Change of priority. Find the jewelry box taken from Elena's apartment.””
He listened.
“And I want to know who entered her bedroom.””
He ended the call.
I sank onto the sofa.
“Twenty-six years,” I whispered.
Dante looked at me.
“What?””
“Twenty-six years of believing my father abandoned us. And all this time, there might have been a letter explaining everything.””
He sat opposite me.
“Perhaps there is.””
I looked at him.
“Do you think my mother knew she was going to die?””
He didn't answer.
“Do you think she was trying to protect me?””
Dante leaned forward.
“I think she knew more than she could safely tell anyone.””
A quiet knock interrupted us.
Matteo appeared, holding a red toy fire truck.
“Papa?””
Dante turned.
“Come in.””
Matteo walked toward me.
“Can you play?””
I smiled.
“I'm not sure I can move very fast right now.””
“That's okay. The fire truck doesn't need to move fast.””
He climbed onto the sofa beside me and placed the truck on my lap.
“It's the fastest one in the whole house.””
Dante looked at his son.
“Didn't you say you wanted to show Elena something?””
Matteo nodded excitedly.
He reached into his pajama pocket and pulled out a small photograph.
It showed a woman standing beside a little girl in front of a bakery.
I recognized the woman immediately.
My mother.
And beside her was a little girl with dark curls.
“Where did you get this?”” I whispered.
Matteo pointed at the picture.
“From Mommy's secret box.””
Dante stood.
“Matteo, where did you find that?””
“In the library.””
“Which library?””
“The little one behind the big books.””
Dante exchanged a look with me.
“Did you take anything else?””
Matteo shook his head.
“Just the picture.””
I stared at the photograph.
The little girl beside my mother couldn't have been more than six years old.
And she looked remarkably familiar.
I turned it over.
Three words were written on the back.
*For Isabella. With love, Margaret.*
My mother had known Dante's wife.
But why had they never told me?
I looked closer.
At the bottom corner, barely visible beneath the photograph, was a date.
Twenty-six years earlier.
Before my mother died.
Before Isabella married Dante.
Before everything fell apart.
“Dante,” I whispered.
He was already looking at the photograph.
His face had lost every trace of color.
“That's impossible.””
“What?””
He took the picture from my hands.
“The little girl.””
He looked at Matteo.
Then back at me.
“That's Isabella.””
My heart skipped.
“What?””
“That's my wife as a child.””
I stared at the photograph.
My mother had been standing beside a little girl who would eventually become the wife of the man now sitting in front of me.
A coincidence?
Or something much darker?
Dante turned the photograph over again.
Then he noticed something I hadn't.
A second line of writing, almost completely hidden beneath the edge of the image.
*If anything happens to me, tell Elena what we found beneath the chapel.*
Dante looked at me.
“What chapel?”” I whispered.
He didn't answer.
Instead, he called Vittorio.
“Get the car ready.””
“Where are we going?””
Dante's eyes remained fixed on the photograph.
“To the old Moretti chapel.””
He paused.
“Because if your mother left something there, someone else may already be looking for it.””
Twenty minutes later, as Dante helped me into the back of his armored SUV, his phone rang again.
He answered.
“Speak.””
Vittorio's voice was urgent.
“Boss, we found the man from the gate.””
Dante's jaw tightened.
“Where?””
“Not far from the estate.””
“And?””
A long silence.
Then Vittorio said something that made Dante's expression turn murderous.
“Boss, he's alive.””
May you like
Dante looked at me.
“And he's asking to speak to Elena.””
