Chapter 5 - The Hidden Diary
Over the next three weeks, an uneasy rhythm settled over the Moretti manor.
Leo’s fever broke and did not return. Under my care, the child transformed from a frail, terrified shell into a bright, giggling boy who babbled happily as he crawled across the carpets. He learned to drink his milk without spitting it up, and every evening, he fell asleep within minutes of resting his head against my chest.
Matteo watched from the periphery. He was a man accustomed to buying loyalty or taking it by force, yet when he observed me sitting on the rug with Leo, stacking wooden blocks and laughing, his guarded demeanor began to fracture. He no longer arrived with bodyguards trailing behind him into the nursery. Sometimes, he simply stood in the doorway with his tie loosened, watching us in silence, the darkness in his features softening into something fragile and human.
One afternoon, while Leo napped peacefully in the master suite, Mrs. Gable asked me to fetch an extra set of woolen swaddles from the attic nursery—the room Sofia had originally prepared before her death, which had remained locked ever since.
“Take the key, child,” the housekeeper said gently, slipping a heavy brass key into my hand. “The master hasn't set foot in there for a year, but it’s time someone brought the fresh linens down.”
The attic suite was frozen in time. A half-finished mobile hung over a bassinet; delicate infant outfits were folded into cedar drawers. The faint scent of gardenias—Sofia’s signature perfume—still clung to the curtains.
As I opened the bottom drawer of an ornate French commode, my fingers grazed something hard beneath the blankets.
I pulled it out. It was a leather-bound journal, closed with a tarnished silver clasp.
I knew I shouldn't pry. I knew that digging into the private affairs of a dead woman tied to an organized crime syndicate was a death sentence. But my own face stared back at me from every framed picture in this house, and the unanswered question of my life pulsed behind my temples like a persistent migraine.
I snapped the clasp open.
The handwriting was elegant, slanted, and passionate. The early pages spoke of Matteo—of his brooding nature, of how he had fought rival factions to protect her, of the fierce love they shared. But as the dates moved closer to the previous year, the tone turned paranoid, frightened, and hurried.
March 14: Matteo thinks the Falcone family is our only threat. He doesn't see what is happening right beneath his nose. The betrayal isn't coming from outside the walls. It’s inside the house. I found the ledger discrepancies. They know I saw.
My heart accelerated. I flipped forward through several loose papers folded into the back cover until a yellowed legal document caught my eye.
It was an official extract from a private maternity hospital in Palermo, dated twenty-four years ago.
Attached to it was an adoption registry from Chicago.
I read the names on the paper, and the air left my lungs in a sharp gasp.
Child A: Sofia Antonella Morelli.
Child B: Elena Maria Morelli.
Status: Separated at birth under sealed decree.
My real name. Not Elina Valdez. Elena Morelli.
Sofia wasn't an operative who happened to resemble me. She wasn't a stranger whose ghost haunted this mansion.
She was my twin sister.
Before I could process the realization, a heavy shadow fell across the doorway.
I snapped the book shut and sprang to my feet, pressing my back against the wardrobe.
Matteo stood at the entrance. His eyes dropped from my trembling hands to the leather journal resting on the dresser, and his gaze turned instantly lethal.
“What are you doing in here?” he demanded, stepping into the room.
“I was looking for linens,” I whispered, holding up the yellowed document with a shaking hand. “Matteo... look at this. Look at what Sofia hid.”
He snatched the paper from my fingers, his eyes sweeping over the official seals and the names.
Seconds ticked by in excruciating silence. The paper began to shake in his grip. His jaw worked, his throat bobbing as he read the hospital decree three times over.
“Sofia told me she was an only child,” he whispered, his voice dangerously low. “Her parents died when she was young. She never spoke of another.”
“Because she didn't know until right before she died,” I said, tears burning in the corners of my eyes. “We were separated in Sicily. I was sent to the States through an agency, grew up in the foster system, while she remained in private care. Look at the note she wrote on the back.”
Matteo turned the paper over. Written in hasty, fading ink were three sentences:
If anything happens to me, find my sister. Only my blood can keep Leo safe from Cassian.
Matteo’s head snapped up, the blood completely draining from his face.
“Cassian,” he spat, the name tearing from his throat like venom.
May you like
“Who is Cassian?” I asked.
“My cousin,” Matteo whispered, his knuckles cracking as his hands clenched into fists. “The man who sits at my right hand. The man running our security division.”
