Chapter 3 - Inside Her Father’s Old Recipe Book, Lucia Found a Message That Made Matteo Bellandi Fear His Own Family
Lucia woke to the sound of footsteps outside her bedroom.
For one terrifying moment, she did not remember where she was. She sat upright, clutching the blanket, and stared at the unfamiliar ceiling. Then she noticed the heavy curtains, the elegant furniture, and the glass of water on the bedside table.
The Bellandi estate.
The documents.
Enzo and Valentina.
The previous evening returned in a rush.
She reached for her phone, remembered it was switched off, and immediately wished she had left it that way. She could already imagine the messages waiting for her. Her mother would demand explanations. Enzo would insist that their relationship had been misunderstood. Valentina would find a new way to turn her shame into Lucia's supposed cruelty.
For once, Lucia decided she would not spend her morning managing other people's feelings.
She showered, dressed in the clothes Signora Conti had provided, and made her way downstairs.
The smell of espresso led her toward a large kitchen. Several cooks worked around a central island, preparing breakfast beneath copper pots and hanging lamps. Nobody appeared frightened by her presence, although two people became noticeably quieter when she entered.
Signora Conti stood near the espresso machine.
“Buongiorno, cara. Did you sleep?”
“Enough to remember that my life has become a disaster.”
“Then the sleep did its job.”
Lucia smiled faintly.
“Have you seen Matteo?”
“He has been awake since four.”
“Is that normal?”
“For Matteo? Unfortunately.”
Signora Conti placed a cup of espresso on the counter.
“Eat something before you go looking for trouble.”
“I thought trouble was looking for me.”
“Then give yourself a proper breakfast before you meet it.”
Lucia accepted a small plate of toasted bread, ricotta, and sliced fruit. She ate at the kitchen island while a young man in a dark shirt entered and spoke quietly to Signora Conti.
The older woman listened, nodded, and turned to Lucia.
“Matteo wants you in the library.”
Lucia finished her espresso.
“Of course he does.”
The library occupied the entire eastern side of the ground floor. Tall shelves reached toward a painted ceiling, and the windows overlooked a garden where the morning mist lingered between the cypress trees.
Matteo stood at a large table with Dario and Alessandro.
A map of Rome lay beside a stack of printed photographs.
“You look less likely to collapse today,” Matteo observed.
“Give me time.”
He motioned toward the chair opposite him.
“Your bakery was entered sometime after midnight.”
Lucia's appetite vanished.
“What?”
“The front door showed no signs of forced entry. The rear lock was damaged from the inside, suggesting whoever entered may have had a key.”
“Enzo.”
“Possibly. We found no one inside, but the filing cabinet had been emptied. The documents you took were the only items missing from the relevant drawer.”
Lucia stared at him.
“So they knew exactly what they were looking for.”
“Yes.”
“And they know I have it.”
“They know the documents are missing. Whether they know you took them is less certain.”
“Did they damage anything?”
“Some office drawers were overturned. The kitchen was untouched. Your display cases were intact.”
Relief and anger collided in her chest.
“They broke into my business and searched my father's office.”
“They did.”
“I want to go there.”
Dario immediately shook his head.
“That is not advisable.”
“I didn't ask whether it was advisable.”
Matteo raised a hand, stopping Dario before he could respond.
“Your bakery is under observation. There is a security team outside, and two investigators I trust are documenting the scene. You can visit once the initial search is complete.”
“How long?”
“An hour.”
“Thirty minutes.”
Matteo studied her.
“Forty-five.”
“Fine.”
Alessandro looked between them with an expression that suggested he had rarely watched anyone negotiate with Matteo Bellandi over a matter measured in minutes.
Matteo ignored him.
“There is something else. We examined the financial records against the company's internal accounts. Three of the shell companies belong to a larger network controlled by Rosati Logistics. Another two are registered to individuals who died several years ago.”
“Dead people?”
“Convenient, isn't it?”
“Very.”
Alessandro opened a folder.
“The money appears to have been diverted through these companies before entering accounts connected to a private port facility. That facility once handled shipments for Bellandi Maritime, including the last shipment supervised by Matteo's brother.”
Lucia looked at Matteo.
“Your brother disappeared?”
Matteo's expression closed.
“Three years ago.”
“Was he involved in your business?”
“He worked for the legitimate side of the family companies. Paolo managed shipping schedules, inspected manifests, and developed a plan to separate our commercial operations from the people who used them for illegal purposes.”
“And what happened?”
“He was sent to inspect a shipment. His vehicle was recovered outside the city. Paolo was not.”
Lucia's throat tightened.
“Was he killed?”
“No body was ever found.”
The answer carried more pain than any description of death.
Lucia looked down at the map.
“I'm sorry.”
Matteo nodded once, accepting the words without discussing them.
“Your documents contain several transactions from the same week. We originally believed they concerned a warehouse dispute. Now I suspect they were connected to whatever happened to Paolo.”
“You think Enzo knows?”
“I think Enzo knows more than he has admitted.”
Lucia looked toward the windows. She had spent the previous evening wondering how she could survive the loss of a fiancé. Matteo was investigating the possible murder of his brother through financial records hidden beneath her pastries.
Their disasters had crossed paths long before either of them knew the other existed.
“Could my father have been involved?” she asked quietly.
Matteo's gaze returned to her.
“Why would you ask that?”
“Because Enzo had access to the shop, because someone knew where those papers were, and because my father kept records nobody else understood. He worked with suppliers for decades. He knew everyone in the neighborhood.”
“That does not make him guilty.”
“No. But it means he may have known something.”
She looked at Alessandro.
“Can you search the dates in my father's old invoices against these payments?”
“If we can obtain the originals.”
Lucia rose.
“Then we need to go to the bakery.”
The security team finished documenting the building shortly before ten. Matteo insisted on accompanying her, although Lucia suspected the insistence had less to do with her feelings and more to do with the number of men who wanted the documents.
A dark vehicle stopped one street away from Dolce Stella. Two bodyguards moved ahead, checking the surrounding shops before signaling that the area was clear.
Lucia stepped out and stood before her bakery.
The blue sign swung gently above the door.
For a moment, she could not move.
Everything looked familiar. The cream paint, the green window frames, the brass handle her father had polished every Sunday. Even the small crack in the pavement remained where a delivery van had once dropped a crate of oranges.
Yet she could no longer look at the building without imagining strangers searching her office.
Matteo stood a short distance away, giving her room.
“Are you ready?”
“No.”
“Would you prefer to leave?”
Lucia looked at him.
“No.”
She unlocked the front door.
The bell chimed.
Inside, the shop was almost exactly as she had left it. The display cases were empty. The coffee machine stood ready for the morning rush. A stack of clean plates sat beneath the counter.
Then she noticed the chalkboard.
Someone had written a message beneath her handwritten menu.
KEEP YOUR HANDS OUT OF THINGS YOU DON'T UNDERSTAND.
The words had been scrawled in black marker, cutting through the carefully drawn stars around the daily specials.
Lucia stood motionless.
Matteo read the message behind her.
“Dario.”
The bodyguard approached, photographed the board, and made a note.
Lucia took a deep breath.
“I'm not erasing it.”
Matteo looked at her.
“What?”
“I said I'm not erasing it. Whoever wrote that wants me to be afraid of my own shop. They can look at it every time they pass.”
She crossed the kitchen and opened the office door.
The filing cabinet stood empty. Papers lay across the floor. Someone had pulled every drawer open, leaving the room looking as though a storm had passed through it.
Lucia crouched to gather the scattered documents.
Then she stopped.
The framed photograph of her and her father lay facedown beneath the desk.
She lifted it carefully.
The glass had cracked, but the picture remained undamaged.
“Animals,” she whispered.
Matteo knelt beside her.
He did not touch the photograph. Instead, he held out a cloth so she could wipe away the dust.
“My father carved that sign,” she told him. “He was a carpenter before he became a baker. When his hands became too stiff for detailed work, he said he needed something that would give him a reason to get out of bed every morning.”
She carefully set the photograph upright.
“Dolce Stella was supposed to be his last great adventure.”
“What happened to him?”
Lucia's expression tightened.
“He died four years ago. A heart attack, according to the doctor. He had complained about dizziness for weeks, but he refused to stop working. He always said he had too many orders to fill.”
Matteo's eyes remained on her face.
“Were there any unusual circumstances?”
“Not that I knew of. He had a checkup, and the doctor said his blood pressure was high. We thought that was all.”
She returned to the desk, trying to ignore the memory that had surfaced.
A week before her father's death, Giuseppe had called her into the kitchen and asked whether she still had his old recipe notebook.
Lucia had said it was on the highest shelf in the storeroom.
He had stared at her for several seconds, then asked her to promise that she would never let anyone take it.
She had laughed.
“Papa, it's recipes, not the crown jewels.”
He had not laughed with her.
“Promise me, Lucia.”
She had promised.
Later, she had assumed he had been worried about someone stealing his recipes.
Now the memory seemed less harmless.
“Where is the notebook?” Matteo asked.
“In the storeroom.”
“Then we should retrieve it.”
Lucia led him through the kitchen to a narrow room containing sacks of flour, spare trays, and boxes of seasonal decorations. An old wooden shelf occupied the far wall.
The recipe notebook lay exactly where she remembered, wedged between two binders of handwritten formulas.
Its cover was blue leather, worn at the edges and darkened by years of flour and fingerprints.
Lucia opened it.
The first pages contained recipes for cannoli, sfogliatelle, almond biscuits, and orange cakes. Her father's handwriting covered the margins, with notes about temperatures and small adjustments that made the difference between an ordinary pastry and one customers returned to buy again.
Near the middle, Lucia noticed several pages that looked newer than the others.
She turned them carefully.
A date appeared at the top of one page: three weeks before her father's death.
Below it were four short lines of handwriting.
The first mentioned an unusual shipment.
The second listed the initials G.M.
The third contained the name Bellandi.
The final line read:
IF ANYTHING HAPPENS TO ME, THE STAR MUST NOT FALL INTO ROSATI HANDS.
Lucia's fingers began to tremble.
Matteo leaned closer, reading the sentence without touching the page.
For several seconds, neither spoke.
“Your father knew my family?” he asked.
“I don't know.”
“Did he ever mention Paolo?”
“No.”
“Did he ever meet my father?”
“I don't know!”
Her voice echoed through the storeroom.
Lucia pressed her palms against her eyes.
“I'm sorry. I don't know anything. I thought he was worried about his recipes, and I thought Enzo was planning a wedding. I have spent months thinking about flowers and invitations while people have apparently been writing threats into my father's notebooks.”
Matteo waited until she looked at him again.
“You were not responsible for the things other people chose to hide from you.”
“You don't know that.”
“No. But I know that someone who understands a conspiracy can conceal it from someone who does not. That is not the same as making the innocent person responsible.”
His voice carried no pity.
That made it easier to hear.
Lucia looked down at the notebook.
“The star must not fall into Rosati hands.”
“Your father was warning you.”
“Or warning someone else.”
Matteo slowly turned the notebook toward the light.
“Look at the binding.”
Between the leather cover and the first page, a narrow strip of paper had been inserted. It was almost invisible against the worn spine.
Lucia carefully eased it out.
A small brass key dropped into her palm.
Attached to it was a paper tag bearing a single number.
“Do you recognize it?” Matteo asked.
Lucia shook her head.
“Not yet.”
She turned the key over.
On the back, someone had engraved a tiny eight-pointed star.
Matteo's expression changed.
“What is it?” she asked.
“I've seen this symbol before.”
“Where?”
“In my brother's private files.”
The storeroom seemed suddenly smaller.
Lucia closed the notebook and held it against her chest.
“What does the key open?”
“I don't know. But I have a suspicion.”
“Then tell me.”
Matteo glanced toward the kitchen, where Dario was speaking quietly to another guard.
“Three years ago, Paolo told me he had discovered an account book that could expose a network of bribery, stolen shipments, and political corruption. He said the evidence had been divided into several pieces so that no single person could destroy it.”
“And you never found the rest?”
“No.”
Lucia looked at the key.
“You think this is one of them.”
“I think your father may have helped my brother hide something.”
“But why would Papa help a Bellandi?”
“I cannot answer that until we know what happened between them.”
A sudden noise came from the front of the shop.
Someone had opened the door.
The bell chimed.
Dario immediately moved toward the kitchen entrance, one hand raised to signal silence.
Matteo took the notebook from Lucia, placed it inside a clean cloth bag, and stepped in front of her.
Footsteps crossed the tiled floor.
A man appeared in the doorway.
He wore a navy suit beneath a dark raincoat. His hair was silver at the temples, and his face held the exhausted dignity of someone who had spent years carrying burdens he could not discuss.
Lucia recognized him before Matteo spoke.
Carlo Bellandi.
Matteo's uncle.
She had seen his photograph in newspapers beside Matteo and the late patriarch of the family. He was said to have retired from the family's shipping businesses after Paolo disappeared.
Carlo looked at Lucia first, then at the notebook in Matteo's hand.
His expression lost all color.
“Where did you find that?”
Matteo stepped away from the storeroom.
“Good morning to you, too, Uncle.”
Carlo ignored him.
“Lucia, put the book down.”
She stared at him.
“You know my name?”
“I knew your father.”
Matteo's jaw tightened.
“You knew Giuseppe Vissi?”
Carlo finally looked at his nephew.
“Yes.”
“How well?”
“Well enough to know that if he gave that book to his daughter, it means we are already too late.”
Lucia felt a chill pass through her.
“Too late for what?”
Carlo looked toward the front windows.
“Too late to pretend your father's death was an ordinary heart attack.”
Silence fell.
Even the distant hum of the refrigerator seemed to disappear.
Lucia gripped the edge of the worktable.
“What did you just say?”
Carlo swallowed.
“Your father discovered what Rosati Logistics was moving through the port. He found out that the money was being transferred through legitimate businesses, and he realized his employer was planning to use those businesses to hide the evidence.”
“My father owned Dolce Stella. He didn't work for the port.”
“He did not need to work there to see the deliveries.”
Carlo's gaze shifted toward Matteo.
“Giuseppe kept records for a small catering company that supplied meals to the port's overnight crews. He noticed discrepancies. Shipments appeared on invoices that never arrived. Payments were made to businesses that had no staff. When he questioned the wrong person, he was threatened.”
Lucia shook her head.
“Why didn't he tell us?”
“He may have been trying to protect you.”
“By dying without telling me what was happening?”
Carlo flinched.
“I don't know exactly what happened to him. I know he was frightened, and I know someone warned him that his family would suffer if he spoke.”
Matteo's voice became dangerously quiet.
“Who warned him?”
Carlo looked toward the window again.
“That is the question that has kept me awake for four years.”
A black car moved slowly past the bakery.
Carlo watched it until it disappeared around the corner.
Then he reached inside his coat and removed a folded piece of paper.
“Your father gave me this shortly before he died,” he said. “He told me to keep it safe until the day someone came looking for the star.”
He handed it to Lucia.
The paper contained a single sentence in her father's handwriting.
IF MATTEO EVER FINDS THE BOOK, TELL HIM THE ENEMY IS ALREADY INSIDE HIS HOUSE.
Lucia read it once.
Then again.
She looked at Matteo.
For the first time since she had met him, his calm expression broke completely.
Because the words did not accuse the Rosati family.
May you like
They accused someone inside the Bellandi estate.
And Matteo Bellandi had just brought Lucia Vissi into the only place in Rome where the enemy might already be waiting.
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