Chapter 1 - The Dead Office Phone Rang at 9:17, and the Mafia Boss Knew the Number by HeartThe old telephone rang at 9:17 on a Tuesday night.
That is the detail I remember first.
Not Alessandro Moretti’s face.
Not Marco’s.
Not even my four-year-old daughter sitting in a chair large enough to swallow her.
The time.
9:17.
Because for almost five months before that night, I had been writing down every Tuesday when the phone made a sound it was not supposed to make.
The Moretti mansion stood north of Chicago, beyond an iron gate and a mile of old trees that turned black whenever it rained.
That evening, October weather had pressed low over the property until the windows reflected nothing but their own rooms.
Rain tapped the copper gutters.
The kitchen smelled of rosemary chicken, furniture polish, and the coffee Marco Moretti drank after dinner whether he wanted it or not.
I was kneeling outside Alessandro’s private study with a clean cloth in one hand and a small brass key in the other when I heard Sophia speak.
“Hello?”
My entire body went still.
The study door was open.
It was never open.
I pushed myself up.
“Sophia?”
No answer.
I stepped inside.
My daughter sat behind Alessandro Moretti’s desk with both feet hanging six inches above the floor.
Pink cardigan.
Gray leggings.
One braid already coming loose.
Her coloring book lay open beside a dusty black telephone nobody had touched in years.
She held the receiver against her ear with both hands.
Marco stood three feet away.
Perfect navy suit.
Silver at his temples.
A polite expression he wore so often I sometimes wondered whether his real face existed underneath it.
And Alessandro had just entered through the opposite door.
He stopped.
Everybody stopped.
The old phone had belonged to a private internal line installed before smartphones took over the house.
Most of the staff considered it decoration.
I had been told the line was disconnected seven years earlier.
Sophia looked at Alessandro.
“There’s nobody talking.”
Marco gave a quiet laugh.
“Children like buttons.”
He walked toward her.
“She should not be in here.”
Alessandro did not look at him.
He looked at the telephone.
“What did she dial?”
Marco answered immediately.
“That number is dead.”
Silence.
Alessandro’s face had gone strangely still.
“What number?”
Marco hesitated.
“S-17.”
I looked between them.
I had no idea what that meant.
Alessandro did.
He crossed the room so fast Marco stepped aside.
He took the receiver from Sophia.
“Who gave you this?”
She frowned.
“Nobody.”
“Then how did you call?”
“I pressed the buttons.”
“Which buttons?”
Sophia pointed.
One.
Seven.
Seven.
Then a pause.
One.
Four.
Alessandro's face changed.
I could see it.
Recognition.
Fear.
Something deeper than both.
He looked at the old phone as though it had just spoken his dead brother’s name.
“What is it?” I asked.
He ignored me.
“Again,” he said to Sophia.
She looked confused.
“Again what?”
“Dial the number.”
I felt a chill.
“Alessandro.”
He looked at me.
“Stay out of this.”
The words were sharp.
Too sharp.
Sophia watched him.
Then, with the stubbornness only a four-year-old could carry, she pressed the same buttons again.
The line rang.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
Then a ringtone sounded from somewhere inside the study.
Not from the receiver.
From the room.
A soft three-note melody.
I knew it.
I had heard it before.
Five months earlier.
On the first Tuesday.
9:17 p.m.
I had been downstairs polishing silver when a faint chime came from the upper hallway.
I asked Marco about it.
He told me it was an old alert system.
I believed him.
The next Tuesday it happened again.
Same time.
Same melody.
Then again.
And again.
For months.
Always 9:17.
Always Tuesday.
Always somewhere near the old study.
I had started writing the times in the back of my grocery notebook.
I never imagined my daughter was the one causing it.
Alessandro stood motionless.
“Where?”
Marco looked toward the bookshelves.
The ringtone came again.
Three notes.
Soft.
Almost childish.
Then silence.
Alessandro moved to the wall.
He pressed his hand against the wood panel beneath the shelves.
Nothing happened.
Sophia giggled.
“Behind there.”
Every adult in the room turned toward her.
“What did you say?” Alessandro asked.
Sophia pointed.
“Behind there.”
“How do you know?”
She shrugged.
“That's where the phone lives.”
My blood turned cold.
Marco's face lost its polite expression.
Alessandro looked at him.
“You knew.”
Marco shook his head.
“I swear.”
“Don't swear.”
“I didn't know she could—”
“Could what?”
Marco stopped.
Alessandro stepped closer.
“You were going to say something.”
“No.”
“Say it.”
Marco's jaw tightened.
“I was going to say children hear things.”
Alessandro looked at Sophia again.
She was humming the three-note melody.
He crouched.
“Sophia.”
She smiled.
“That's Daddy's song.”
My heart stopped.
She hadn't called Alessandro Daddy.
She called me Mama.
She called her father “Daddy.”
But her father was dead.
He had been dead for almost four years.
I had seen the coffin.
I had held Sophia while people lowered it.
Alessandro knew this.
So did Marco.
The room suddenly felt too small.
“Who taught you that song?”
Sophia pointed toward the wall.
“Him.”
“Who?”
“The man behind the wall.”
I felt every hair on my arms rise.
Alessandro stood.
“Everybody out.”
Marco didn't move.
“I said everyone.”
Marco looked at him.
“Sir—”
“Out.”
The staff began leaving.
I should have gone with them.
I didn't.
Alessandro noticed.
“You too.”
“No.”
His eyes narrowed.
“My daughter isn't leaving.”
He looked at Sophia.
Then at me.
“She's yours?”
“Yes.”
“Then take her.”
I shook my head.
“Something is wrong.”
“I know.”
“No.”
I pointed at the phone.
“This was disconnected.”
“Yes.”
“Seven years ago.”
He stared.
“How do you know?”
“Because that's what I was told during orientation.”
Alessandro looked at Marco.
Marco's expression changed.
“Who trained you?”
“Mrs. Bell.”
“She's been dead six years.”
I swallowed.
“I know.”
Alessandro touched the old telephone.
His thumb brushed the dial.
Then he said something that made my stomach drop.
“My brother used this line.”
“Your brother?”
“Tobias.”
The name was followed by silence.
I had heard the household whisper it before.
Tobias Moretti.
Alessandro's older brother.
Dead seven years.
Supposedly killed during a failed business negotiation.
That was the public story.
But nobody talked about him.
Not really.
Sophia pointed at the phone.
“Uncle Toby.”
Alessandro turned toward her.
“What?”
She smiled.
“Uncle Toby.”
I stared at my daughter.
“Sweetheart, you've never met Uncle Toby.”
“Yes, I did.”
“When?”
“Yesterday.”
The room disappeared beneath me.
Alessandro looked at her.
“What did he look like?”
Sophia thought.
“Tall.”
“Anything else?”
“He smelled like rain.”
Alessandro's face became rigid.
Tobias had been known for smelling like cedar and rain after coming in from the lake.
But that was impossible.
Seven years dead.
I watched Alessandro move toward the bookshelf.
He pulled three books.
A mechanical click sounded.
The wall opened six inches.
A hidden compartment.
Marco stepped backward.
Alessandro stared into darkness.
Inside was an old communication console.
A small red light blinked.
9:17.
Tuesday.
My breath caught.
Alessandro reached inside.
The machine clicked.
Then a recording began.
A man's voice.
Older.
Calm.
Familiar only to Alessandro.
“If you're hearing this, Al, then she's found the phone.”
Alessandro froze.
I looked at him.
He looked like he'd seen a ghost.
The voice continued.
“She'll be four when the line starts ringing.”
“Don't trust Marco.”
“Don't trust the doctors.”
“And whatever you do, don't let Evelyn take the girl.”
The recording ended.
Silence.
Marco moved first.
He turned toward the door.
Alessandro drew his weapon.
“Don't.”
Marco froze.
I grabbed Sophia and pulled her behind me.
She started crying.
Alessandro looked at the hidden room.
Then at Marco.
Then at me.
“Take my daughter somewhere safe.”
I stared.
“She stays with me.”
He shook his head.
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because whoever recorded that knew what was coming.”
“Then tell me what is happening.”
Alessandro's eyes met mine.
For the first time since I had known him, I saw something other than power in them.
I saw terror.
“My brother wasn't killed seven years ago.”
The room went silent.
“He disappeared.”
May you like
He looked at the dead telephone.
“And someone in this house has been pretending he did.”
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