Chapter 3 - The Man Behind My Brother’s Voice
The lock moved.
Not the handle.
The deadbolt.
Someone outside had a key.
Carmine grabbed my wrist and pulled me behind the stainless-steel island just as the door opened.
A narrow strip of hallway light cut across the floor.
Nobody entered.
For three seconds there was only silence.
Then a small black speaker rolled across the tile.
Daniel’s voice played from it again.
“Elena, open the door.”
Recorded.
My fear turned to fury.
Carmine crossed the room fast, kicked the device aside, and reached the doorway.
The corridor was empty.
Whoever had been there already knew the service hall well enough to disappear.
Carmine shut and locked the door again.
“They wanted me outside.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“To separate us.”
“Who?”
He looked at the speaker.
“Someone who knows this house.”
I thought of Mrs. Bell.
“No.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You were thinking it.”
“I’m thinking about everyone.”
“She wouldn’t.”
“You have known her eleven months.”
“She’s protected the staff.”
“So have people who later betrayed them.”
I hated that I had no answer.
Carmine called security.
Within minutes the basement filled with men in dark suits.
None spoke to me.
Carmine issued orders quietly.
Search the east corridor.
Lock exterior gates.
Confirm Rocco’s vehicles.
Secure staff entrances.
Find Mrs. Bell.
The last instruction made my stomach twist.
Twenty minutes later, they found her.
Unconscious in the linen room.
Someone had struck her from behind.
That erased my suspicion and replaced it with something worse.
The traitor remained inside.
At four fifteen, Carmine moved me upstairs.
Not to a bedroom.
To his private office.
It was the first time I had entered.
The room looked less like the office of a crime boss than I expected. Dark wood shelves. Old books. A fireplace. No obvious weapons.
The windows overlooked the east gardens.
He locked the door.
I gave him a look.
“Again?”
“You prefer it open?”
“No.”
“Then we agree.”
“That might be our first time.”
He almost smiled.
Then he pointed toward a leather couch.
“Sit.”
“I’m not fragile.”
“You can barely breathe without holding your ribs.”
I hated that he noticed.
A doctor arrived ten minutes later.
Not through the main door.
Through a concealed panel behind a bookshelf.
Of course.
Dr. Alvarez was a silver-haired woman in her sixties who seemed entirely unimpressed by Carmine Moretti.
She cleaned my lip, checked my throat, and examined my ribs.
“Bruised, not broken.”
Carmine stood near the window.
“Anything serious?”
Dr. Alvarez looked at him.
“She is sitting three feet away. You can ask her.”
For the first time in my life, I saw Carmine Moretti look mildly embarrassed.
“I’m fine,” I said.
“You are not fine,” Dr. Alvarez replied. “But you will recover.”
She gave me pain medication and instructions.
Then she approached Carmine.
“You.”
“I’m not injured.”
“You look terrible.”
“I’m delighted you came.”
She patted his cheek as though he were still a child.
“You need sleep.”
After she left, I stared at him.
“What?”
“She touched your face.”
“She delivered me.”
“You’re less terrifying than advertised.”
“Do not spread that rumor.”
I laughed.
It hurt my ribs.
For one strange second, the fear loosened.
Then I remembered the card.
“My mother.”
Carmine crossed to his desk.
“You still have it?”
I handed him the black credential.
He examined it under a lamp.
Then opened a drawer and removed another card.
His father’s.
The seals matched.
“The archive,” I said.
“Yes.”
“You said it’s under the east wing.”
“Yes.”
“We’re going.”
“No.”
“Carmine.”
His eyes lifted at the use of his first name.
I didn’t care.
“Someone attacked me because of that archive. Someone threatened my brother. My dead mother apparently hid eighteen million dollars. I am done being told to wait in kitchens.”
A long pause.
Then he nodded.
“Fine.”
The archive entrance was behind a wine rack.
Because apparently rich criminals had no imagination.
Carmine pressed his palm to a scanner.
A steel panel opened.
We descended a narrow staircase.
At the bottom stood a reinforced door containing two card readers.
Carmine inserted his father’s credential.
One light turned green.
“Two keys,” I said.
He held out my mother’s card.
I inserted it.
Second light.
Green.
The door unlocked.
Carmine looked at me.
“That card was designed to be used with my father’s.”
“Meaning?”
“Your mother wasn’t just an employee.”
The archive smelled of paper and old leather.
Rows of shelves disappeared into darkness.
Boxes were labeled by year.
1989.
1990.
1991.
Carmine moved toward a cabinet marked PRIVATE LEDGERS.
It was already open.
He swore under his breath.
“Rocco?”
“Probably.”
Inside, several folders were missing.
One remained.
Carmine opened it.
Photographs.
My mother.
Young.
Maybe twenty-four.
Standing beside Vittorio Moretti.
Then another photograph.
My mother holding a baby.
I reached for it.
“That’s me.”
“No.”
Carmine’s voice stopped me.
I turned.
“What?”
He pointed to the date printed in the corner.
The photograph had been taken four years before I was born.
My hands went numb.
“Then whose baby is that?”
Carmine took the photograph.
His face changed.
He whispered one name.
“Matteo.”
“Who?”
“My brother.”
I stared.
“You have a brother?”
“Had.”
Carmine sat slowly.
“He died when he was six months old.”
My mother was smiling in the photograph.
Holding the baby close.
On the back, in her handwriting:
I promised Sofia I would protect him.
“Who is Sofia?”
Carmine looked devastated.
“My mother.”
The next photograph showed Margaret Vale and Sofia Moretti together.
Best friends.
Not servant and employer.
Friends.
The official story Carmine had been told his entire life began breaking apart in front of us.
We searched deeper.
A sealed envelope contained a letter addressed to Carmine.
Written by my mother.
He opened it with shaking hands.
Carmine,
If you ever read this, Vittorio is gone or you have finally become strong enough to learn what he did.
Your brother did not die of illness.
He was taken.
I made the decision that saved his life.
And I have carried the consequences ever since.
Carmine stopped.
“What?”
He could not continue.
I took the letter.
Your mother knew the truth. She asked me to help.
The child called Matteo Moretti left this house alive.
He was given another name.
I read the final line.
And suddenly I understood why Rocco had photographs of my brother.
Daniel was twenty-three.
My mother had raised him.
Not from birth.
She had always told me she adopted him after a family tragedy when he was an infant.
I looked at Carmine.
He already knew what I was thinking.
“No,” I whispered.
Carmine’s face had gone pale.
We looked at the photograph again.
The baby had a tiny crescent-shaped birthmark behind his left ear.
Daniel had the same mark.
The room tilted.
“My brother…”
Carmine’s voice broke.
“May be my brother.”
Before either of us could speak again, the archive lights went out.
A steel door slammed upstairs.
Then Rocco’s voice came through the darkness.
May you like
“You should have left the dead buried.”
---
