Chapter 3 - The Secret Hidden Inside the Clock
At 12:07 a.m., I stood alone in my father’s study.
The house was under lockdown.
Every corridor was occupied.
Every gate was sealed.
The men guarding the estate had been ordered not to sleep.
Yet I knew none of it would matter.
Whoever had taken Sofia had moved through forty armed guards as if they were furniture.
That meant the enemy knew something we didn't.
I took my father's watch from the chain around my neck.
Sofia had called it a singing clock.
I opened the back.
Nothing.
I turned the crown.
The second hand stopped.
Then started again.
Tick.
Tick.
Tick.
At twelve seconds, a tiny sound clicked inside the casing.
I froze.
I twisted the watch again.
A hidden compartment opened.
Inside was a microfilm strip.
My father had concealed evidence inside his watch.
I placed it beneath the old magnifying lens on his desk.
The images revealed financial records.
Secret accounts.
Weapons shipments.
Payments to officials.
Then I saw a name.
Bruno Bianchi.
More payments.
More dates.
The transfers continued for fifteen years.
The final one had been sent three months ago.
To Marco.
I stared at the page.
“No.”
The door opened.
Marco walked in.
“You shouldn't be alone.”
I put the microfilm away.
“Why?”
“Because whoever is behind this may come back.”
“Did you know my father kept records in his watch?”
He stopped.
“No.”
“You're lying.”
His eyes narrowed.
“You've accused me three times tonight.”
“And you have avoided answering me three times.”
He stepped closer.
“You think I betrayed you?”
“I think someone did.”
“After fifteen years?”
“Yes.”
His voice dropped.
“Then ask yourself who benefited from me staying beside you all these years.”
I didn't answer.
He continued.
“I protected you from your father’s enemies.”
“I know.”
“I took bullets for you.”
“I know.”
“I buried men for you.”
“I know.”
“I killed people so you wouldn't have to.”
“I know.”
“Then why am I standing here explaining myself?”
“Because you are standing here.”
He stared at me.
For several seconds, neither of us moved.
Then he reached into his coat.
My guards outside raised their weapons.
Marco slowly pulled out a photograph.
He placed it on the desk.
It showed my mother.
Alive.
My mother had died when I was nineteen.
Or so I believed.
The photograph was dated two months earlier.
She was sitting in a small cafe.
Older.
Gray hair.
Alive.
I looked up.
“What is this?”
Marco's voice was quiet.
“Your mother.”
“Where did you get it?”
“She contacted me.”
“When?”
“Four months ago.”
“Why didn't you tell me?”
“Because she asked me not to.”
My jaw tightened.
“You lied to me.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because your mother told me she was hiding from Lorenzo.”
I looked at him.
That didn't make sense.
Lorenzo was supposedly dead.
Then someone screamed over the security radio.
“Movement in the north orchard!”
I ran.
Gunfire erupted among the trees.
My men returned fire.
A black SUV tore through the hedge.
We chased it.
It disappeared beyond the northern gate before our vehicles could intercept it.
On the ground, one wounded man lay bleeding.
I knelt beside him.
“Who sent you?”
He laughed.
“Too late.”
“Where is the girl?”
He smiled.
“With her father.”
The words hit me.
“Sofia's father?”
He coughed.
“He's coming home.”
Then he died.
I looked at Marco.
His face had become unreadable.
“Who is Sofia's father?” I asked Elena.
She had followed us into the orchard.
She looked terrified.
“I don't know.”
“You're her mother.”
“Yes.”
“Then tell me.”
Tears filled her eyes.
“I was never supposed to tell anyone.”
“Tell me.”
She shook her head.
“Her father is a Moretti.”
Everything stopped.
Marco looked at her sharply.
“What?”
Elena clutched her arms.
“Sofia was born three years ago.”
“Who is her father?” I demanded.
She whispered, “Your brother.”
My stomach dropped.
I had no brother.
Or so I had been told.
But then I remembered something from childhood.
A boy's room.
A second bedroom beside mine.
A photograph of two children.
One was me.
The other had been torn out.
I had always assumed it was a cousin.
Now I understood.
My father had erased someone from my history.
I returned to the study.
The fireplace seemed too small to contain the memories suddenly rising inside me.
I searched every drawer.
Every hidden compartment.
Behind a panel, I found a sealed envelope.
My name.
Again.
I opened it.
Alessandro,
If you read this, then your brother Matteo may already be dead.
Do not trust the story I told you.
Your brother was born twelve minutes before you.
He was the true heir.
My hands shook.
Twelve minutes.
Operation Twelve.
The clock.
Sofia had not been speaking about midnight.
She had been speaking about twelve.
My father had hidden a succession battle inside a children's story.
The letter continued.
Your brother was taken after Bruno discovered his existence.
He was raised under another name.
I never found him.
If he returns, do not assume he comes for power.
He may come for justice.
I lowered the letter.
Marco entered.
“I need to tell you something.”
“Not now.”
“You have to hear it.”
I looked at him.
“Who is Sofia's father?”
Marco's face collapsed.
He sat down slowly.
“His name is Matteo.”
“My brother.”
“Yes.”
I felt anger burn through me.
“Where is he?”
“I don't know.”
“But you knew he was alive.”
“Yes.”
“How long?”
“Three years.”
I took one step toward him.
“You knew?”
“He asked me to protect Elena and Sofia.”
“And he has been living near my estate?”
“No.”
“Then where?”
Marco looked at me.
“He was inside your estate.”
The room seemed to tilt.
“Where?”
“In the walls.”
A strange sound came from the fireplace.
I turned.
A section of stone moved.
A man stepped out.
Tall.
Dark-haired.
Scar across his jaw.
A face that looked like mine.
He stared at me.
“I’m Matteo.”
The gun in my hand rose automatically.
He didn't move.
“My brother.”
He gave a bitter smile.
“You finally found me.”
Behind him came Sofia.
She was holding her blue rabbit.
Alive.
Unhurt.
She ran past him.
“Uncle!”
She jumped into my arms.
I caught her.
My heart pounded.
“Where were you?”
She pointed at Matteo.
“Daddy said the bad man was coming.”
I looked at Matteo.
“Who?”
Before he could answer, every window in the mansion shattered at once.
A storm of bullets ripped through the room.
Matteo tackled me to the floor.
Marco pulled Elena behind the desk.
The attack lasted thirty seconds.
Then silence.
When we stood again, the walls were covered in bullet holes.
Matteo looked at me.
“They know I’m here.”
“Who?”
He answered with one sentence.
“The man who killed our father.”
I looked toward Marco.
He whispered, “That isn't possible.”
May you like
Matteo's eyes hardened.
“Bruno Bianchi is alive too.”
