Chapter 4 - The Secret Hidden Inside an Old Stuffed Rabbit
By noon, Aleandro had divided his own mansion into two categories.
People he trusted.
And people he had not yet proved guilty.
The first category contained four names.
Rosa.
Mia.
Possibly Marco.
And himself.
Even Marco noticed.
“You think I’m involved.”
They stood inside the study with the door locked.
“I think someone knows my codes.”
“I know your codes.”
“Yes.”
“Someone knows the house.”
“So do I.”
“Yes.”
Marco looked hurt.
Not offended.
Hurt.
They had known each other since they were teenagers.
That made suspicion worse, not easier.
Marco walked toward the window.
“If I wanted your chair, I’ve had easier chances than this.”
“I know.”
“You were unconscious for four days after the accident in Palermo.”
“I remember.”
“No, you don’t. You were unconscious.”
Aleandro almost smiled.
Marco turned.
“I ran everything. I could have taken it then.”
“Maybe you didn’t want it then.”
Marco stared at him for several seconds.
“That’s fair.”
Aleandro respected the answer.
No denial.
No emotional speech.
Just acknowledgment.
“Until Elena is safe,” Aleandro said, “trust is a luxury.”
Marco nodded.
“So what now?”
Aleandro glanced at Bunny.
Rosa had repaired the rabbit.
The new stitches were straighter than Elena’s.
Mia had objected.
“Mama makes them crooked,” she had complained.
Rosa had deliberately removed her stitches and sewn them again badly.
Mia approved.
Aleandro found himself thinking about that while planning how to uncover a conspiracy inside his own organization.
It felt absurd.
It also kept him grounded.
“Vittorio’s chapel visits,” Aleandro said. “Find out whether anyone accompanies him.”
Marco took out a folder.
“I already did.”
“Who?”
“Nobody.”
“Cameras?”
“None inside the chapel.”
“Outside?”
Marco slid across photographs.
Vittorio entered every Sunday at 2:10.
Exited at approximately 2:30.
Except three Sundays earlier.
That day he stayed forty-seven minutes.
Three weeks earlier was when Elena said she discovered the first documents.
Aleandro looked up.
“Who cleaned the chapel that day?”
Marco knew immediately.
“Elena.”
They crossed the mansion without security.
Aleandro wanted no radio traffic announcing where he was going.
The family chapel occupied the oldest part of the estate.
His grandfather had built it after immigrating from Sicily.
Its stained-glass windows depicted saints Aleandro had never learned much about.
Marco closed the doors.
They searched.
Nothing.
Pews.
Candles.
Old prayer books.
A marble altar.
Aleandro stood in the center.
“What would Elena have seen?”
“She cleaned.”
Aleandro looked toward the storage room.
Inside were replacement candles, linens, cleaning supplies.
On the wall hung an old wooden crucifix.
Marco noticed Aleandro staring.
“What?”
“It’s crooked.”
“So?”
“My father hated crooked things.”
Aleandro lifted the crucifix.
Behind it was a small electronic keypad.
Marco stared.
“You knew about this?”
“No.”
Aleandro entered an old family code.
Denied.
His father’s birthday.
Denied.
Aleandro’s birthday.
Denied.
Then he remembered Vittorio’s habit.
The attorney tapped his wedding ring whenever nervous.
His late wife, Sofia, had died on April 19.
419.
The lock clicked.
A panel opened.
Behind it, stairs descended underground.
Marco exhaled.
“That old fox.”
Aleandro turned on his phone light.
They descended.
The room beneath the chapel contained filing cabinets, a desk, two servers, and stacks of documents.
Not an ancient family archive.
A modern command center.
Marco walked toward the servers.
“This wasn’t built decades ago.”
“No.”
“Maybe two years.”
Aleandro opened a cabinet.
Inside were copies of his signatures.
Financial statements.
Security schedules.
Private medical information.
Photographs of board members.
Then he found Elena.
Not physically.
A file.
ROSSI, ELENA.
He opened it.
The first page contained her photograph.
Address.
Employment history.
Her husband’s death.
Mia’s birth certificate.
Aleandro’s expression hardened.
The second page contained surveillance notes.
ELENA ENTERED WEST GUEST ROOM, 09:12.
POSSIBLE DOCUMENT EXPOSURE.
MONITOR.
The next note was dated five days later.
SUBJECT OBSERVED SPEAKING WITH DANIEL VIERI.
THREAT LEVEL INCREASED.
The final note:
REMOVE BEFORE FRIDAY.
Aleandro closed the folder.
Friday was tomorrow.
Marco opened another cabinet.
“Aleandro.”
Inside were files on dozens of Moretti employees.
Some marked LOYAL.
Others UNSTABLE.
Several REPLACE.
Marco found his own.
He opened it.
STATUS: LOYAL TO ALEANDRO.
PRIMARY OBSTACLE AFTER TRANSITION.
Marco gave a humorless laugh.
“Well. Apparently I’m not the traitor.”
“Convenient.”
Marco looked at him.
“Seriously?”
“Mostly.”
That was as close to an apology as Aleandro offered.
They continued searching.
One file changed the direction of everything.
It contained a photograph of Vittorio with another man.
The other man was younger.
Late thirties.
Tall.
Dark hair.
Aleandro recognized the eyes.
“Impossible.”
Marco approached.
His face went white.
“No.”
The photograph had been taken six months earlier.
The label beneath it read:
ADRIAN MORETTI.
Marco whispered, “Adrian died nine years ago.”
Aleandro said nothing.
Adrian Moretti had been Aleandro’s younger cousin.
Practically a brother.
Officially, Adrian had died when his car went through a bridge barrier outside Milan.
Aleandro had identified the body himself.
Or thought he had.
The body had been badly burned.
A watch.
A ring.
Dental records arranged by Vittorio.
Everything had confirmed it.
Now a photograph showed Adrian alive.
Standing beside Vittorio.
Dated March.
Marco looked at Aleandro.
“If Adrian is alive…”
Aleandro finished.
“Then Vittorio lied nine years ago.”
Another document rested beneath the photograph.
Aleandro read it.
PROJECT SECOND SON.
PHASE THREE BEGINS FRIDAY.
TRANSFER OF AUTHORITY TO A.M.
Marco frowned.
“Tomorrow.”
Aleandro checked his watch.
Twenty-one hours.
Then footsteps sounded above them.
Both men froze.
The chapel door opened.
Someone walked inside.
Not one person.
Several.
Marco quietly reached for his phone.
No signal underground.
Aleandro turned off the light.
Voices drifted down.
One voice belonged to Vittorio Greco.
The supposedly absent attorney had returned home.
May you like
And he was telling someone to make sure Aleandro Moretti did not survive until Friday evening.
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