Chapter 8 - THE RECORDING BENEATH THE SLEEVELorenzo searched every corridor.
David secured the hospital's exits while emergency personnel rushed toward the room.
Nicholas was nowhere to be found.
Neither was Mateo.
Lorenzo felt the old rage rising inside him.
He had lost his son twice.
He wouldn't survive a third time.
Then his phone rang.
Meline.
He answered immediately.
"Where are you?"
"At the safe house. David's men are with us."
"Mateo took Nicholas."
"I know."
Lorenzo closed his eyes.
"How?"
"I don't know. But I think I know where he'll go."
"Tell me."
Meline hesitated.
"There's an old property outside Newport. It belonged to your father."
Lorenzo remembered it.
A private estate surrounded by forest, abandoned after the fire.
"Why would he go there?"
"Because that's where I first heard him talking about your father."
Lorenzo frowned.
"What did he say?"
"He said the family fortune wasn't built on legitimate businesses. He said your father had hidden something before he died."
Lorenzo looked at the empty hospital bed.
"What something?"
"A ledger. Mateo believed it contained the names of everyone involved in the original criminal operation."
Lorenzo's mind raced.
The Moretti family had spent decades hiding its history.
If the ledger existed, it could destroy the organization.
"Why didn't you tell me before?"
"Because I didn't remember where I had hidden the recording."
"What recording?"
Meline's voice trembled.
"Under my sleeve."
Lorenzo went silent.
She explained that the emblem on her arm wasn't only a punishment.
Mateo had ordered the symbol tattooed over an old surgical scar. Beneath the skin, a small identification chip had been implanted.
The chip was designed to open a hidden storage system.
Meline had discovered the mechanism months earlier.
She had removed a tiny encrypted recording device from the lining of her uniform and hidden it inside the cuff.
She had been carrying it for nearly a year.
"What does it contain?"
"Your father's final message."
Lorenzo stared at the hospital wall.
"Why didn't you give it to me?"
"Because I heard something in it."
"What?"
"Your father said the person who betrayed him was someone he loved more than his own life."
Lorenzo felt his stomach tighten.
"Mateo?"
"No."
A long silence followed.
Then Meline whispered:
"Your mother."
Lorenzo couldn't speak.
His mother had been the center of their family.
She had raised three children, protected them from their father's violent world, and begged Lorenzo to abandon the criminal organization.
He had buried her beside his father.
He had cried at her funeral.
He had never imagined she could have been involved.
"That's impossible," he said.
"I thought so too."
Meline continued.
"Your father said she had been working with Richard Croft for years. But he also said she was trying to stop something. I couldn't understand the rest."
Lorenzo looked at David.
"Find the Newport estate."
David nodded.
"Already locating it."
Then another message arrived.
A video.
Nicholas was sitting on a wooden chair.
His hands were free, but he looked frightened.
Mateo stood behind him.
"Hello, brother."
Lorenzo watched without blinking.
"You have something I need. Bring it to the old house. Come alone."
Mateo leaned closer to the camera.
"And bring the woman who has been hiding the truth under her sleeve."
The video ended.
Meline's voice came through the phone.
"He knows."
Lorenzo looked at the screen.
"Stay where you are."
"No."
"Maddie—"
"I spent three years hiding from him. I won't let him use our son to control me again."
Lorenzo closed his eyes.
"I can't lose you."
"You already did once."
Her voice softened.
"Don't make me watch you lose Nicholas too."
The call ended.
David approached.
"Boss, we found the property."
"How many men can you get there?"
"Twenty within thirty minutes."
Lorenzo checked his weapon.
"Make it forty."
Then he looked at the last photograph of Nicholas.
And realized something.
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Mateo hadn't asked for the recording because he wanted money.
He wanted to destroy the last evidence that could prove who had actually ordered their father's murder.
