Chapter 11 - Elena’s Sixty-Second Phone Call
Elena Rossi had spent most of her life being underestimated.
People mistook quietness for weakness.
They mistook service for submission.
They mistook fear for helplessness.
Vittorio Greco had made the same mistake.
From the room inside Warehouse Seven, Elena watched Adrian pace.
“You’re certain Aleandro believed you?” she asked.
Adrian glanced at her.
“He believed enough.”
“That isn’t what I asked.”
“No.”
Elena folded her arms.
“Then we have a problem.”
Adrian almost smiled.
“You’re much more demanding than you were when cleaning the guest rooms.”
“I was being paid to clean, not offer strategic opinions.”
Tomas stood near the door.
His phone remained in his hand.
Still no message about his son.
Elena looked at him.
“When did you last see him?”
“Seven months ago.”
“What’s his name?”
“Lucas.”
“How old?”
“Ten.”
“Does Vittorio know where his mother is?”
“Yes.”
“Then even if you do everything he says, he’ll never stop controlling you.”
Tomas looked away.
“I know.”
“Then why help him?”
“Because knowing something and accepting it are different.”
Elena understood that.
She had stayed silent for three weeks after discovering the first forged document.
She told herself she was protecting Mia.
In truth, some part of her had also been terrified of losing the only home they had.
Adrian’s phone rang.
He answered.
Vittorio.
He put it on speaker.
“Did you get the notebook?”
“Yes.”
“Original?”
Adrian looked at Elena.
“Yes.”
“Where is Aleandro?”
“Trying to stop the banks.”
“Marco?”
“Turned.”
Vittorio laughed.
“I told you loyalty disappears when money does.”
Adrian’s jaw tightened.
“What about the boy?”
“Alive.”
“Tomas wants proof.”
“He receives proof when I receive the notebook.”
“Where?”
“Midnight.”
“That wasn’t my question.”
Vittorio paused.
“North Gate.”
The Moretti estate.
Adrian looked surprised.
“You’re going back?”
“I never left.”
The call ended.
Tomas went pale.
“He’s in the mansion?”
“Or near it,” Adrian said.
Elena stood.
“What happens at midnight?”
Adrian explained.
Accounts frozen.
Lieutenants confronted with forged evidence.
Aleandro discredited.
Vittorio presenting Adrian as rightful successor.
“And you?” Elena asked.
“Supposed to take control.”
“But you’re not.”
“No.”
“So Vittorio loses either way.”
Adrian nodded.
“That makes him dangerous.”
Elena looked at the phone.
“I need to call Aleandro.”
“We can’t risk it.”
“Sixty seconds.”
“Why?”
“Because he’s thinking like a Moretti.”
Adrian almost laughed.
“He is a Moretti.”
“Exactly.”
Elena stepped closer.
“He’ll focus on stopping Vittorio. But Vittorio isn’t focused on winning anymore.”
“What do you mean?”
“He’s losing control.”
Elena thought of the way Vittorio had looked at her days earlier in the west corridor.
Not calm.
Desperate.
“People who spend years controlling everything become unpredictable when control disappears.”
Adrian studied her.
“You really were paying attention while cleaning rooms.”
“I cleaned the same house for four years. People talk in front of workers they don’t see.”
Adrian handed her the phone.
“One minute.”
Aleandro answered on the first ring.
“Elena?”
“Mia?”
“Safe.”
Elena closed her eyes.
“I need you to listen.”
“Where are you?”
“Safe enough.”
“Elena—”
“Listen.”
He became silent.
“Vittorio is coming back to the estate tonight.”
“I know.”
“He doesn’t care about the empire anymore.”
“How do you know?”
“Because he’s stopped protecting his exits.”
Aleandro said nothing.
She continued.
“When I found the papers, he had backup accounts, passports, properties. Three days ago, those documents disappeared.”
“Meaning?”
“He moved everything.”
“Where?”
“I don’t know.”
“Then why call?”
“Because he took one thing from the safe that made no sense.”
“What?”
“Old photographs.”
“Of?”
“Your father. Adrian’s father. Himself.”
Aleandro frowned.
“Sentimental?”
“No. He stared at one before taking it.”
“Which?”
“A photograph from a groundbreaking ceremony.”
Aleandro remembered dozens.
“What year?”
“1998.”
He froze.
The North Gate had been rebuilt in 1998.
A ceremonial time capsule had been installed beneath it.
His father.
Lorenzo.
Vittorio.
The city mayor.
Aleandro suddenly understood.
“North Gate.”
“Yes.”
“The time capsule.”
“I think he hid something there.”
“What?”
“I don’t know.”
Adrian signaled thirty seconds.
Elena rushed.
“One more thing. Vittorio knows Mia saw Steven Hale.”
“How?”
Elena’s stomach dropped.
“You told someone?”
“No.”
“Then whoever you told is compromised.”
The line became silent.
Aleandro had told only three people.
Marco.
Rosa.
And James Carver.
Elena whispered, “Be careful who you trust.”
The call disconnected.
Aleandro stood inside the parking garage staring at James Carver.
The federal investigator had arrived two minutes earlier.
Gray coat.
Short hair.
Government identification.
Professional demeanor.
Aleandro had told him about Mia’s drawing during their first five minutes together.
Nobody outside the mansion should have known.
Yet according to Elena, Vittorio already knew.
Carver noticed Aleandro’s expression.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
Aleandro slipped the phone into his pocket.
Marco was waiting one level below.
Carver opened a folder.
“I can offer protection for Elena, Mia, Daniel Vieri, Tomas Bellini if he cooperates, and potentially Adrian.”
“And me?”
Carver looked at him.
“You’re not asking for protection.”
“No.”
“You should be.”
Aleandro studied him.
“When did you last speak to Vittorio?”
Carver did not blink.
“I don’t.”
“Wrong answer.”
Carver’s hand moved toward his coat.
Aleandro stepped back.
Two vehicles entered the garage.
Not Moretti cars.
Carver’s expression changed.
“Aleandro, get down.”
Glass shattered behind them.
Not gunfire—an overhead fluorescent fixture exploding as a vehicle struck a support barrier.
Men exited.
Carver pulled Aleandro behind a concrete pillar.
“You think this is me?”
Aleandro watched the approaching men.
They wore no insignia.
Carver pulled out his phone.
“Federal agents are two floors down.”
“Convenient.”
Carver looked furious.
“I did not sell you out.”
“Then who knew this meeting?”
“You. Me. Marco.”
Aleandro’s heart sank.
Marco.
No.
He refused the thought.
Then Carver said, “And my supervisor.”
“Name?”
“Lydia Foster.”
Aleandro went still.
“Photograph.”
“What?”
“Show me.”
Carver opened a secure directory.
The image appeared.
Different hair.
Glasses.
Conservative clothes.
But unmistakable.
Lydia Greco.
Vittorio’s daughter had not merely returned to the country.
She had spent years working inside the investigation designed to expose her father.
And suddenly Aleandro understood why James Carver’s case had gone nowhere.
The enemy was not only inside the Moretti mansion.
May you like
It was inside the people supposedly investigating it.
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