Chapter 9 - The Son of Santoro
Carlo survived surgery.
Barely.
For 9 hours, I sat outside a private hospital room while Lucia prayed, Matteo paced, and half of Naples apparently pretended not to know why armed security surrounded an entire floor.
At 6:12 the next morning, the surgeon came out.
“He’ll live.”
My legs stopped working.
I sat down.
Lucia cried.
Matteo disappeared into a stairwell, claiming he needed to make a phone call.
Nobody believed him.
When Carlo finally woke, I was beside him.
His eyes opened slowly.
Then found me.
“You look terrible,” I said.
His voice was weak.
“So romantic.”
“I thought you were going to die.”
“I didn’t.”
“I noticed.”
He reached for my hand.
“I’m sorry.”
“For getting shot?”
“For leaving you.”
I looked at him.
“Good.”
“Good?”
“You should be sorry.”
His tired smile appeared.
“I love you.”
My heart stopped.
He looked almost annoyed by the confession.
As if love were another business problem he had reluctantly accepted.
“You pick now to say that?”
“I was shot.”
“You were shot yesterday.”
“I was unconscious.”
I laughed while crying.
Then leaned down and kissed him carefully.
“I love you too.”
A knock interrupted us.
Matteo entered.
His face told me something was wrong.
“We found Marco DeLuca.”
“And?” Carlo asked.
“Dead.”
The room became silent.
“He was killed approximately 1 hour before calling Elena.”
“That makes no sense,” I said.
Matteo nodded.
“Because it wasn’t Marco who called.”
Someone had wanted us to hear that message.
Someone close.
Carlo began listing everyone with access to his organization.
Security.
Finance.
Drivers.
Advisers.
Then I remembered something.
The first shooting.
The attacker had known where Carlo would be.
But Carlo had not planned to be outside that building.
He had gone there because of my presentation.
Only a few people knew.
Including the man who had scheduled my meeting.
Mr. Romano.
Carlo stared at me.
“Romano.”
Matteo went pale.
“His mother’s maiden name is Santoro.”
Everything clicked.
Romano was Vittorio Santoro’s son.
My client contract.
The meeting.
The parking spot.
None of it had been random except Carlo and me arriving simultaneously.
Romano had brought me there deliberately.
He had expected to use me to lure Carlo.
And somehow our ridiculous argument had disrupted the timing.
“The hotel contract,” I whispered.
Carlo frowned.
“What about it?”
“The files.”
My stolen laptop.
The branding project contained floor plans for 12 Ferretti properties.
Security entrances.
Staff areas.
Loading docks.
Romano had hired me because he needed an innocent person to carry those files.
I had unknowingly been transporting intelligence for Santoro.
Matteo immediately contacted investigators.
But Romano was gone.
So was Vittorio Santoro.
Then I remembered my backup drive.
The design files automatically synchronized every night.
I opened the metadata.
Someone had accessed them repeatedly.
One location appeared again and again.
A Ferretti hotel overlooking the Bay of Naples.
Closed for renovation.
Carlo tried to get out of bed.
I pushed him back.
“No.”
“Elena.”
“You have stitches holding your organs together.”
“That is dramatic.”
“The doctor used the phrase ‘massive blood loss.’”
“I’ve had worse.”
Lucia entered.
“No, you haven’t.”
Carlo looked betrayed.
“Mama.”
She pointed at him.
“You stay.”
He stayed.
For once.
Police surrounded the hotel that evening.
Santoro and Romano were inside.
But they had prepared an escape route through underground service tunnels.
I recognized the plans.
“I designed the signage system.”
Matteo looked at me.
“So?”
“So there’s a construction exit that isn’t on the old architectural drawings.”
We redirected investigators.
At 9:18 p.m., Vittorio Santoro walked straight into waiting police.
Romano followed.
No dramatic gunfight.
No heroic revenge.
Just handcuffs.
Carlo later told me that years earlier he would have handled Santoro differently.
“What changed?” I asked.
“You.”
“That sounds dangerously sentimental.”
“I’m heavily medicated.”
Santoro’s arrest triggered dozens of investigations.
The ledger exposed networks that had survived for decades.
Carlo voluntarily turned over records from his own organization.
That decision cost him money.
Influence.
Some friendships.
Possibly his freedom.
“Why?” I asked.
We stood on his terrace 2 months later.
He was recovering.
Naples glowed below us.
“Because your father asked whether I became mine.”
“And?”
Carlo looked at me.
“I don’t want you spending your life wondering about the answer.”
He had started closing the remaining illegal operations.
Not because I demanded it.
Because he chose it.
I slipped my hand into his.
“Carlo?”
“Yes?”
“My Fiat died.”
He looked solemn.
“I’m sorry for your loss.”
“You hated it.”
“It tried to kill me twice.”
“I need a ride tomorrow.”
“Where?”
I smiled.
“Centro Storico.”
His eyes narrowed.
“Why?”
“I have a meeting.”
“With whom?”
“My new landlord.”
Carlo looked suspicious.
I handed him a document.
He read it.
Then looked at me.
“You leased an office?”
“Yes.”
“In my building?”
“Yes.”
“Directly above my restaurant?”
“Apparently the landlord gave me a surprisingly reasonable rate.”
“I had nothing to do with that.”
“Liar.”
He smiled.
Then kissed me.
But when I started to walk away, he caught my hand.
“One condition.”
“What?”
“Tomorrow night.”
I groaned.
“Carlo.”
“Dinner.”
“You are obsessed.”
“Eight.”
“Fine.”
His expression changed.
“Fine?”
“Yes.”
He stared at me as if I had just announced the end of civilization.
“That was disturbingly easy.”
I smiled.
“Wait until tomorrow.”
Because Carlo did not know yet.
May you like
Tomorrow’s dinner was not going to happen at his restaurant.
And the surprise waiting for him would finally make the most intimidating man in Naples speechless.
