Chapter 5 - The Brother Who Died Twice
Carlo’s brother had been dead for 18 years.
His name was Alessandro Ferretti.
And according to Carlo, nobody in the family spoke about him.
We sat in Carlo’s library at 3 in the morning while rain moved over Naples.
Carlo placed the photograph on the table.
“I was 16 when Alessandro died.”
“How?”
“Car explosion.”
My stomach turned.
“Accident?”
“No.”
He did not elaborate.
He did not need to.
“Why was my father with him?”
“I don’t know.”
“You expect me to believe that?”
“Yes.”
“That’s convenient.”
“Elena.”
“My father was an accountant. He hated boats, hated expensive restaurants, and thought paying more than 20 euros for a shirt was criminal.”
Carlo almost smiled.
“He sounds like you.”
“Do not distract me.”
“I wasn’t.”
“Then tell me the truth.”
“I am.”
He leaned forward.
“My father hid Alessandro’s records after his death. If your father worked with him, I was never told.”
The next morning, Carlo took me somewhere nobody outside his family had entered in years.
An abandoned Ferretti warehouse near the port.
Behind a false wall was Alessandro’s old office.
Dust covered everything.
Ledgers.
Photographs.
Maps.
And one locked steel cabinet.
Carlo opened it.
Inside were files dating back 20 years.
We searched for hours.
At 1:40 in the afternoon, I found my father’s name.
Daniel Bennett.
Not accountant.
Forensic accountant.
He had been investigating money laundering through Ferretti companies.
My father had been working with Alessandro.
Not against him.
Together, they had apparently been collecting evidence against Carlo’s father and another powerful criminal figure.
Vittorio Santoro.
The same surname Matteo had mentioned.
I kept reading.
Then I found a handwritten note.
If anything happens to us, the ledger goes to D.B.
“Carlo.”
He came beside me.
I showed him.
His expression hardened.
“The ledger.”
“What ledger?”
“Something my father spent years searching for.”
“Why?”
“Because it contained names. Payments. Judges. Police officers. Politicians. Businesses.”
I stared.
“And my father had it?”
“Apparently.”
My pulse quickened.
“My father died 2 months after Alessandro.”
Carlo went still.
“Boating accident?”
“That’s what my mother told me.”
He looked away.
“What?”
“Elena.”
“What?”
“Your father didn’t die in an accident.”
The world seemed to tilt.
“How do you know?”
“Because Santoro killed everyone he believed had access to Alessandro’s records.”
I slapped Carlo.
The sound echoed through the warehouse.
Neither of us moved.
My hand burned.
“You knew.”
“No.”
“You knew Santoro murdered people and you never—”
“I knew he killed Alessandro’s associates. I did not know your father was one of them.”
“My mother lied to me.”
“She was probably trying to protect you.”
“She died 5 years ago believing she had protected me from something I didn’t even know existed.”
My voice broke.
I hated that.
I turned away.
Carlo did not touch me.
That mattered.
He waited.
When I could breathe again, I asked, “Why now?”
“The ledger.”
“If my father had it, it’s gone.”
“Maybe Santoro doesn’t believe that.”
I thought of my destroyed apartment.
My stolen computer.
The photograph.
Then something surfaced in my memory.
A birthday gift.
My father had given me an antique wooden music box when I turned 9.
My mother had kept it after his death.
I still owned it.
It was in storage.
We reached the storage facility 30 minutes later.
The lock on my unit had been cut.
“Carlo.”
He pushed me behind him.
Inside, boxes had been ripped open.
My childhood photographs covered the floor.
The music box was gone.
I felt sick.
Then Carlo crouched.
“What?”
He picked up a small brass key.
I recognized it.
“That was inside the music box.”
“Inside?”
“There was a hidden compartment. I found it when I was 12. Only the key was there.”
Carlo examined it.
A number had been engraved into the metal.
“Bank deposit box,” he said.
“Which bank?”
He turned the key over.
A faded emblem remained on the other side.
Banca Vesuviana.
Carlo’s expression changed.
“What?”
“That bank closed 15 years ago.”
“So the box is gone?”
“No.”
He stood.
“My family bought the building.”
Of course they had.
Two hours later, we stood beneath an old bank in a sealed underground vault.
Box 317 remained untouched.
My hands shook as I inserted the key.
Inside was no ledger.
Only a cassette tape.
And an envelope addressed to me.
ELENA.
I recognized my father’s handwriting immediately.
My knees nearly gave out.
Carlo caught my elbow.
I opened the envelope.
My darling Elena,
If you are reading this, then I failed to come home.
I covered my mouth.
The letter explained everything.
My father and Alessandro had discovered that Vittorio Santoro was preparing to murder Carlo’s father and seize control of several criminal networks.
But Alessandro had discovered something worse.
Someone inside the Ferretti family was helping Santoro.
Someone Carlo trusted.
The ledger proved it.
My father had hidden the original.
The tape contained instructions for finding it.
At the bottom of the letter was one final sentence.
Do not give the ledger to Carlo Ferretti until you know whether he became his father.
I looked up.
Carlo had read it over my shoulder.
His expression was unreadable.
“You don’t trust me now,” he said.
“I met you 2 days ago.”
“Reasonable.”
“You’re not angry?”
“I’m furious.”
“At me?”
“No.”
He looked toward the vault entrance.
“At the fact that your father was right to be careful.”
A gunshot echoed upstairs.
Matteo shouted.
Carlo immediately pushed me behind the steel vault door.
Men were coming.
Several.
Carlo drew his weapon.
Before the lights died, I saw something on his face I had never seen before.
Fear.
May you like
Not for himself.
For me.
