Chapter 2 - The Man Who Was Supposed to Be Dead
The sound came from the hallway.
Low.
Calm.
Almost amused.
For a man who had allegedly been dead for twenty years, Lorenzo Moretti sounded remarkably alive.
Every gun in the room rose.
“Find him,” I ordered.
The guards scattered.
Marco stayed beside me.
I studied the photograph again.
My father.
Me.
Marco.
Lorenzo.
The image had been taken before my father sent Lorenzo away.
At least, that was the official story.
Lorenzo had betrayed Salvatore.
He had stolen money from the family, ordered the murder of three loyal soldiers, and vanished after a shootout on the northern border.
A burned vehicle had been discovered at the bottom of a ravine.
Inside were human remains.
My father identified them as Lorenzo’s.
I was seventeen at the time.
I believed him.
Apparently, I had been wrong.
Sofia stood beside her mother, watching everyone with unsettling calm.
I crouched in front of her.
“Have you seen that man before?”
She shook her head.
“Only his shoes.”
“What shoes?”
“Black ones.”
“Anything else?”
She thought carefully.
“He talks softly when Mama is cleaning.”
Her mother stared at her daughter.
“Mama,” I said.
The young woman swallowed.
“My name is Elena, sir.”
“How long have you worked here?”
“Six months.”
“And you’ve heard this man?”
“Yes.”
“Where?”
“In the old laundry hall.”
I glanced at Marco.
He said nothing.
I had lived inside this mansion for eight years.
I knew every major room.
I did not know an old laundry hall existed.
That realization frightened me more than the gunfire.
My father had built this house like a fortress.
There were rooms I knew nothing about.
Corridors nobody used.
Doors with keys only he had possessed.
Maybe my father had hidden secrets from enemies.
Maybe he had hidden them from me.
A guard hurried in.
“Boss, west wing is clear.”
“Search again.”
“It’s empty.”
“The walls?”
The guard hesitated.
“Sir?”
“Search the walls.”
Marco looked at me.
“Alessandro, this is getting ridiculous.”
“No.”
I turned toward him.
“It is becoming interesting.”
He stared at me.
“You believe the child?”
“I believe evidence.”
“And what evidence do you have against me?”
“None.”
His shoulders relaxed slightly.
That was another mistake.
I noticed it.
“Yet,” I added.
He frowned.
I handed the photograph to my security chief, Matteo.
“Send copies to every trusted man outside this estate.”
Marco stepped forward.
“You don't know who can be trusted.”
“I know.”
His expression tightened.
“That is exactly what concerns me.”
We searched until midnight.
Nothing.
No Lorenzo.
No hidden assassin.
No explanation.
At 11:30, I entered the kitchen.
Elena was there, preparing milk for Sofia.
The child was asleep in a chair.
I sat across from her.
“You know something.”
She looked terrified.
“I don't, sir.”
“You are lying.”
She lowered her eyes.
“I'm sorry.”
“Don't apologize. Tell me.”
She squeezed the cup.
“Three nights ago, Don Marco came to the kitchen.”
“What did he want?”
“He asked me to leave the back door unlocked.”
“Why?”
“He said there would be a delivery.”
“What delivery?”
“I don't know.”
“What time?”
“After midnight.”
“Did anyone enter?”
“Yes.”
“Who?”
“I never saw his face.”
“How do you know it was a man?”
“He wore boots.”
“What did he say?”
She hesitated.
I leaned forward.
“Every word matters.”
“He told Don Marco that the old plan was ready.”
My stomach tightened.
“What plan?”
She whispered, “Operation Twelve.”
The kitchen went silent.
I had heard those words before.
A coded phrase my father once used.
Operation Twelve meant succession.
Not murder.
Succession.
A plan designed to remove a leader and transfer control to another member of the family.
My father had used it only once.
In my childhood.
When he believed one of my uncles might attempt to take over.
That night, I followed Elena through the mansion.
She showed me a narrow corridor behind the laundry room.
A panel opened.
A staircase descended underground.
Cold air rose from below.
My security team followed us.
The staircase ended at a concrete passage.
At the end was a steel door.
On it were twelve scratches.
I touched them.
The door opened.
Inside was a room filled with photographs.
My father.
Me.
Marco.
My mother.
Elena.
Even Sofia.
Her photograph showed her sleeping in a stroller outside a grocery store.
My chest tightened.
Someone had been watching us.
For months.
Maybe years.
A table occupied the center of the room.
On it was a detailed map of the estate.
Twelve red circles marked twelve locations.
And one black circle marked my bedroom.
Matteo cursed.
I looked at Marco.
He was staring at the map.
His face had lost its color.
“You know this room,” I said.
“No.”
“Then why are you frightened?”
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
He stepped toward the table.
I blocked him.
“Don't touch anything.”
He stopped.
The room smelled of gun oil.
A small recorder sat beside the map.
I pressed play.
My father’s voice emerged through static.
“If you are hearing this, Alessandro, then someone has activated Operation Twelve.”
I felt ice travel through my veins.
“My son, trust no one who tells you they are protecting you. The man nearest your shoulder may be the man who put the knife behind your back.”
The recording continued.
“Lorenzo was not the traitor.”
I looked at Marco.
His eyes widened.
“Lorenzo was trying to stop him.”
A pause.
Then my father spoke again.
“The real traitor wears my ring.”
Silence.
I looked at every man in the room.
Several wore family rings.
But one ring stood out.
A black signet with the Moretti crest.
Marco's.
He noticed me staring.
“You gave me this ring yourself.”
“Years ago.”
“Yes.”
“Where did you get it?”
He frowned.
“What kind of question is that?”
“Answer me.”
“My father gave it to me.”
“Your father died when you were sixteen.”
Marco stared at me.
“That is why he gave it to me.”
I remembered his father.
A brutal man named Bruno Bianchi.
Bruno had served my father for decades.
But there was another detail.
My father never trusted Bruno.
Not once.
A crash came from upstairs.
Then a woman's scream.
“SOFIA!”
Elena ran.
I followed.
We reached the kitchen.
Sofia was gone.
The chair had fallen.
The milk cup lay shattered on the floor.
A back door stood open.
Elena collapsed to her knees.
“No.”
I grabbed her.
“Who took her?”
“I don't know!”
Then I saw something on the floor.
A pink ribbon.
Sofia’s ribbon.
Beside it was a note.
YOU HAVE UNTIL MIDNIGHT TOMORROW TO CHOOSE YOUR SUCCESSOR.
At the bottom was one word.
ALESSANDRO.
And beneath it, a crude drawing of a child holding a rabbit.
Sofia's blue rabbit.
I looked at Marco.
His face was expressionless.
“You knew this would happen.”
He shook his head.
“No.”
I stepped close enough to hear his breathing.
“My niece has been kidnapped inside my own estate.”
“She was taken by someone who knows this house.”
“Yes.”
“Someone who knows your security.”
“Yes.”
“Someone who knows me.”
“Yes.”
He stared at me.
“So stop looking at me like I’m the enemy.”
For fifteen years, I had trusted this man with my life.
But trust becomes dangerous when it survives evidence.
I turned to Matteo.
“Lock every gate.”
“Already done.”
“No one leaves.”
Matteo nodded.
I looked at the note again.
Midnight tomorrow.
The clock on my father’s watch ticked.
Then Sofia’s voice echoed in my memory.
When the clock sings twelve times…
I had always thought she meant death.
Now I wondered whether she meant something else.
May you like
Perhaps the clock was not counting down.
Perhaps it was opening something.
