Chapter 2 - The Dead Man Whose Name Was Written Inside the Black BoxI didn't know what frightened me more.
The fact that Alessandro knew my father's real name.
Or the fact that I didn't.
For twenty-three years, my grandmother had told me the same story.
My father was Marco Rossi.
He had died in a warehouse fire.
My mother had disappeared shortly afterward.
That was all I knew.
But now Alessandro Moretti was standing across from me, looking at me as though I'd just returned from the dead.
“Sit,” he said.
I remained standing.
“Tell me about Marco.”
“He was my father.”
“You're sure?”
“Yes.”
“Do you have his death certificate?”
“Yes.”
“Who signed it?”
“I don't know.”
“Who told you where he died?”
“My grandmother.”
He nodded.
“Where is she?”
“My grandmother?”
“Yes.”
“In the hospital.”
His eyes sharpened.
“Why?”
“She has cancer.”
“How long?”
“Two years.”
“Who pays the bills?”
I stared at him.
“I do.”
“With what?”
“My salary.”
He looked at my uniform.
“No.”
I didn't answer.
His voice softened.
“Who pays?”
I looked away.
A lie would be easy.
But I'd learned something about Alessandro Moretti.
He noticed everything.
“My father left money.”
“Hidden?”
“Yes.”
“How much?”
“Not much.”
“Where?”
I hesitated.
“An account.”
“Under whose name?”
“My grandmother's.”
He nodded.
Then looked at the box.
“Your father knew this box would eventually reach me.”
“Why?”
“I don't know.”
“He left a message.”
“Where?”
“Inside the box.”
Alessandro turned toward it.
I reached for the sealed letter.
“Not yet.”
He stopped.
“You said there was poison.”
“I said maybe.”
“Open it.”
“No.”
His eyes darkened.
“You're afraid.”
“Yes.”
“Of me?”
“No.”
“Then of what?”
I looked at the letter.
“Of what my father wanted you to know.”
He studied me.
Then surprisingly said:
“Fair.”
He stepped back.
“Tell me what your grandmother told you.”
I thought about the conversations we'd had.
The warnings.
The strange contradictions.
“My grandmother told me my father was a good man.”
Alessandro said nothing.
“She said he worked in finance.”
“Did he?”
“I don't know.”
“She told you he died in a warehouse fire.”
“Yes.”
“My father owned seven warehouses.”
I looked at him.
“Your father?”
“Alessandro Moretti.”
“So Marco worked for him?”
“No.”
He walked to the window.
“They were brothers.”
My breath stopped.
“Brothers?”
“My father's younger brother was named Marco.”
I shook my head.
“No.”
He turned.
“Why?”
“Because my father wasn't Italian.”
He studied me.
“He wasn't?”
“My grandmother said he was from Pennsylvania.”
Alessandro almost smiled.
“My family owned property in Pennsylvania.”
I felt sick.
“So my father—”
“Was a Moretti.”
I stepped away.
“This is insane.”
“No.”
“Then why did my grandmother lie?”
“Because my father died.”
“What does that have to do with my grandmother?”
“She may have been protecting you.”
“From whom?”
He stared at me.
“My father.”
Silence.
I looked at the black box.
“What happened to your uncle Marco?”
“He betrayed the family.”
“How?”
“I don't know.”
“You don't?”
“I was thirteen.”
“What did your father say?”
“That Marco stole from him.”
“Did he?”
Alessandro's expression changed.
“I don't know.”
“Then why believe him?”
“I didn't.”
He moved toward me.
“That is why the box exists.”
“What?”
“My father left it behind.”
“Why?”
“To prove something.”
“Prove what?”
“That Marco wasn't the traitor.”
My heart began racing.
“If my father wasn't the traitor…”
“He was framed.”
“By whom?”
Alessandro picked up the photograph.
“Theodore Vale.”
“Senator Vale.”
“Not just a senator.”
“What was he?”
“Fixer.”
I didn't understand.
“In my father's world, people like Vale weren't employees.”
“They were bridges.”
“Between criminals and politicians.”
“Between money and power.”
“And my father?”
“Your father tried to destroy the arrangement.”
That explained the fire.
The missing records.
The lies.
The dead identity.
But there was more.
Alessandro opened another drawer.
Inside was an old newspaper.
The headline:
MORETTI HEIR KILLED IN WAREHOUSE FIRE
The date was twenty-three years earlier.
The article showed a photograph.
A young man.
Marco Moretti.
My father.
I stared.
My knees weakened.
“No.”
Alessandro caught my elbow.
“You're shaking.”
“I don't understand.”
“You will.”
“Why didn't my grandmother tell me?”
“Because she knew someone was looking for you.”
“Who?”
He didn't answer.
Instead, his phone rang.
He listened.
His expression turned cold.
“What?”
Dominic spoke from the other end.
Alessandro's jaw tightened.
“Repeat that.”
Silence.
Then:
“Bring him.”
He ended the call.
“What happened?”
“A security camera caught someone entering the east wing.”
“Who?”
“Your grandmother's doctor.”
My blood froze.
“What?”
Alessandro looked at me.
“The doctor treating your grandmother.”
“That doesn't make sense.”
“He wasn't there to treat her.”
“Then why?”
“He was searching for records.”
I felt sick.
“What records?”
“Yours.”
I stared.
“Why would anyone care about me?”
Alessandro looked toward the black box.
“Because you're not supposed to be alive.”
Before I could respond, the lights went out.
Gunfire exploded downstairs.
Dominic shouted:
“Lock the library!”
Alessandro shoved me behind him.
“You stay here.”
“I can help.”
“No.”
Another gunshot.
Then silence.
A voice came through the intercom.
“Alessandro.”
His face hardened.
The voice laughed.
“You found the girl.”
I couldn't breathe.
Alessandro looked at me.
“Who is that?”
His voice was quiet.
“Theodore Vale.”
“But he's dead.”
“No.”
“Then who?”
May you like
Alessandro raised his weapon.
“That's what we're going to find out.”
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