Chapter 1 - The Song That Should Have Died
Every morning at exactly six fifteen, Sofia Moretti disappeared.
Not for long.
Usually ten minutes.
Sometimes fifteen.
But long enough to make her father suspicious.
Luca Moretti noticed everything.
He noticed when one of his guards changed cars.
He noticed when a servant took the wrong hallway.
He noticed when a glass on his desk had been moved half an inch.
So when his seven-year-old daughter began slipping out of bed before sunrise every morning, he noticed that too.
At first, he thought she was having nightmares.
Then he thought she was sneaking downstairs for sweets.
On the fifth morning, he followed her.
Sofia crept through the enormous marble hallway in pink slippers, carrying a small stuffed rabbit under one arm.
She looked over her shoulder twice.
Luca stayed several steps behind.
He had spent most of his life following men who didn't want to be found.
Following his daughter should have been easy.
It wasn't.
She moved like a tiny criminal.
At the bottom of the staircase, Sofia disappeared through the servants' entrance.
Luca stopped.
Nobody in his household used that entrance before breakfast.
He followed.
The smell reached him first.
Warm butter.
Cinnamon.
Fresh bread.
Then he heard laughter.
A woman's laughter.
Luca's expression hardened.
He stepped into the kitchen.
His daughter was sitting on the marble counter, swinging her little legs while Clara Bennett, the newest maid, stood beside the stove.
Clara was humming.
No.
Not humming.
Singing.
Softly.
Without music.
Without realizing anyone was listening.
Luca stopped breathing.
He knew that song.
Everyone in the Moretti household knew it.
But nobody had sung it in almost four years.
It had belonged to Elena.
His wife.
The woman who had died on a rainy night four years ago.
The song Elena used to sing whenever Sofia couldn't sleep.
The song she had sung while cooking Sunday breakfast.
The song she had whispered against Luca's chest during the first winter of their marriage.
And now Clara was singing it.
The same melody.
The same words.
Even the same little pause before the final line.
Luca's hand tightened around the doorway.
Clara didn't notice him.
Sofia did.
Her eyes widened.
“Daddy.”
Clara stopped singing.
The kitchen went silent.
She turned.
The color drained from her face.
“Mr. Moretti.”
Luca stared at her.
“Where did you learn that song?”
Clara swallowed.
“I don't know what you mean.”
“You were singing my wife's song.”
Clara looked down.
“I was just singing.”
“Where did you hear it?”
“I…”
Luca walked toward her.
His voice remained quiet.
That was worse than shouting.
“Answer me.”
Sofia jumped off the counter.
“Daddy, don't scare her.”
Luca stopped.
He looked at his daughter.
Then back at Clara.
The maid's hands were trembling.
But there was something else in her expression.
Not guilt.
Fear.
Luca knew the difference.
“Who taught you that song?”
Clara's eyes filled with tears.
“No one.”
“That's impossible.”
“I heard it once.”
“When?”
She hesitated.
“Years ago.”
Luca's jaw tightened.
“Where?”
Clara looked toward Sofia.
Then at him.
“From a woman.”
The kitchen seemed to shrink around them.
“What woman?”
Clara whispered,
“I don't know her name.”
Luca stepped closer.
“Describe her.”
“She had dark hair.”
His heart stopped.
“She wore a gold ring.”
His breathing changed.
“She had a small scar here.”
Clara touched the left side of her neck.
Luca stared at the exact spot.
Elena had a scar there.
A tiny crescent-shaped scar from an accident when she was seventeen.
Nobody outside the family knew about it.
Nobody.
“Where did you meet her?”
Clara looked toward the window.
“I was seventeen.”
Luca waited.
“I was working in a little bakery in Boston.”
“Boston?”
She nodded.
“She came in every Thursday morning.”
Luca's mind raced.
Elena had told him she had spent part of her childhood in Boston.
But that wasn't what frightened him.
Clara continued.
“She always bought the same thing.”
“What?”
“Two cinnamon rolls.”
Luca's face went pale.
“One for herself,” Clara whispered.
“And one for a little girl.”
Sofia stopped moving.
Luca looked at his daughter.
“Why a little girl?”
Clara's eyes filled again.
“She said the girl was hers.”
Luca's heart slammed against his ribs.
“My wife never had another child.”
Clara looked at him.
“I know.”
“Then who was the girl?”
“I don't know.”
“Clara.”
“I swear.”
She stepped backward.
“I never knew who she was. I only knew the woman was afraid.”
“Afraid of what?”
Clara looked directly at him.
“Someone was following her.”
Luca went still.
The kitchen door suddenly opened.
One of his guards rushed inside.
“Boss.”
Luca turned.
“What?”
The guard lowered his voice.
“We found something outside.”
He held out a small plastic evidence bag.
Inside was a photograph.
Luca took it.
His fingers froze.
The photograph showed Elena.
Alive.
Standing outside a bakery in Boston.
She was holding the hand of a little girl.
A little girl who looked exactly like Sofia.
Luca's eyes lifted slowly.
“That photo was taken three months after Elena's funeral.”
Nobody spoke.
Sofia looked at the picture.
Then at her father.
“Daddy?”
Luca couldn't answer.
Clara suddenly whispered,
“That's not the worst part.”
Luca looked at her.
“What is?”
Clara's voice broke.
“The woman in that photograph…”
She pointed at Elena.
“She wasn't alone.”
Luca turned the photograph over.
There was a message written on the back.
Six words.
His blood ran cold.
She wasn't hiding from you, Luca.
He read the next line.
She was hiding you from them.
And beneath it was an address.
An address Luca recognized immediately.
His own house.
The Moretti estate.
Luca slowly looked toward the kitchen doorway.
Someone had been listening from the other side.
May you like
The door was still moving.
Someone had just left.
