Chapter 4 - A PHOTOGRAPH FROM TWENTY-FIVE YEARS AGO
The old man's name was Vittorio Moretti.
He was seventy-three years old.
He owned hotels, shipping companies, construction firms, and, according to every newspaper article I'd ever read about him, a criminal empire that had survived three federal investigations and two attempted assassinations.
But standing in front of me, he looked less like a powerful man than a father who had spent twenty-five years waiting for someone to come home.
“May I see you?” he asked.
I frowned.
“I'm right here.”
“Closer.”
Dante moved slightly between us.
“Father.”
Vittorio lifted one hand.
“I won't hurt her.”
I didn't believe him.
But I stepped forward.
He studied my face.
My eyes.
My mouth.
The small scar beneath my left eyebrow.
Then he began to cry.
Quietly.
Without covering his face.
“Elena had that scar,” he whispered.
I touched it.
“My mother said I fell off a bicycle when I was six.”
Vittorio shook his head.
“No. You were injured during the fire.”
Dante's gaze sharpened.
“What fire?”
Vittorio closed his eyes.
“The night everything ended.”
I felt anger rising.
“Could someone please stop speaking in riddles?”
The old man looked at me.
“You deserve the truth.”
He sat heavily.
Dante remained standing.
Vittorio began.
“Twenty-five years ago, the Bellandi family controlled shipping routes through the Mediterranean. Elena was their only surviving direct heir. Our marriage united two families who had been enemies for generations.”
“Did you love her?” I asked.
The question surprised him.
“Yes.”
“Then why did everyone think she was dead?”
His expression darkened.
“Because I saw her body.”
Silence.
Vittorio reached into his coat and removed an old photograph.
A beautiful woman stood beside a fountain, holding a newborn.
She had golden hair.
Blue-gray eyes.
And my face.
Not exactly.
But close enough that my hands began shaking.
“That was Elena,” Vittorio said.
I stared at the photograph.
The baby wore a white dress.
Around her tiny neck hung a silver pendant.
Mine.
I touched the necklace.
“Why was it buried with her?”
Vittorio's voice broke.
“Because I thought she was wearing it when they found her.”
Dante leaned forward.
“Who identified the body?”
“My brother.”
The room went still.
Marco looked at Dante.
Dante looked at his father.
“Uncle Salvatore?”
Vittorio nodded.
A terrible silence followed.
I had heard the name Salvatore Moretti before.
Even people who knew nothing about organized crime recognized it.
He was a wealthy philanthropist.
A businessman.
A man who appeared in photographs beside senators and charity directors.
He was also Dante's uncle.
“Where is he now?” I asked.
Dante answered.
“On his way here.”
My stomach dropped.
“Why?”
“Because someone told him about the shooting at Aurelia.”
I stood.
“We need to leave.”
Dante looked at me.
“Alina—”
“My mother told me never to trust a man with a dragon tattoo. She spent twenty-five years hiding. Someone shot at me tonight. And now the man who identified a dead woman who apparently wasn't dead is coming here?”
Vittorio looked confused.
“Dragon tattoo?”
I pointed at Dante's hand.
“This.”
Vittorio's expression changed.
Then he looked at Dante.
“Show her.”
Dante hesitated.
“Father.”
“Show her.”
Slowly, Dante unbuttoned his cuff.
He rolled back his sleeve.
The dragon tattoo curled around his wrist.
But beneath it was another symbol.
A small broken crown.
Exactly like the engraving on my pendant.
I stared.
“What does that mean?”
Vittorio answered.
“The dragon belongs to the Morettis. The broken crown belongs to the Bellandis.”
Dante looked at me.
“My mother was also a Bellandi.”
My heart stopped.
“What?”
Vittorio closed his eyes.
Dante's voice was quiet.
“My mother was Elena's cousin. She died when I was twelve.”
I looked between them.
“So we're related?”
“Distantly,” Dante said.
I took a step back.
He continued before I could speak.
“But my father never legally married Elena.”
Vittorio looked ashamed.
“The marriage was ceremonial. Our families recognized it. The government did not.”
“Why?”
“Because I was already married.”
I stared at him.
The old man lowered his head.
“Dante's mother was my legal wife.”
I felt sick.
“So Elena was your mistress?”
Vittorio looked up sharply.
“No. She was the woman I loved.”
“That doesn't answer the question.”
Dante said nothing.
Vittorio rubbed his forehead.
“My marriage was arranged. Elena knew the truth. We planned to leave everything behind.”
“And then she disappeared.”
“Yes.”
I looked at the photograph.
At the baby.
At the necklace.
A terrible possibility formed.
“What if Elena wasn't killed?”
Vittorio looked at me.
“What if my mother helped her escape?”
Dante's phone rang.
Marco answered before he could.
He listened.
Then his face drained of color.
“Boss.”
“What?”
“Salvatore's convoy is ten minutes away.”
Dante reached for his jacket.
“Lock down the building.”
Marco hesitated.
“There's something else.”
Dante stopped.
“Say it.”
Marco looked at me.
“The lab found an archived blood sample from the Bellandi clinic.”
My heartbeat thundered.
“And?”
“It matches Alina's DNA profile from the hospital records.”
I grabbed the back of a chair.
Dante moved toward me.
“Alina.”
I barely heard him.
Marco continued.
“The sample was labeled Sofia Bellandi.”
Vittorio covered his mouth.
I whispered, “So it's true.”
Marco shook his head.
“Not exactly.”
Dante turned.
“What do you mean?”
Marco swallowed.
“The sample identifies her biological mother.”
I looked up.
“Who?”
Marco's voice became almost inaudible.
“Not Elena Bellandi.”
A cold silence filled the room.
“Then who?”
He looked directly at Vittorio.
“Your legal wife.”
May you like
Dante went rigid.
And I realized the truth was far worse than anyone had imagined.
