Chapter 3 - The Secret Beneath the Mansion
Enzo had inherited three things from his father.
An empire.
A reputation.
And a locked room he had never opened.
The room was beneath the mansion.
His father had called it the archive.
As a teenager, Enzo had assumed it contained financial records.
After inheriting the organization, he had discovered something strange.
Nobody knew the combination.
Not Tommy.
Not the family attorney.
Not even his father’s oldest consigliere.
Enzo had ignored it.
Until now.
“You’re telling me,” Beatrice said, “that there’s been a sealed room beneath this house for five years and you never opened it?”
“My father liked secrets.”
“So do you.”
“Yes.”
“And that never bothered you?”
“I assumed it contained records I was better off not seeing.”
Beatrice stared.
“That may be the first intelligent criminal decision you’ve described.”
“You know, I can fire you.”
“I quit around the time your hallway exploded.”
They stood before a steel door behind the wine cellar.
Enzo entered his father’s birthday.
Red light.
His mother’s birthday.
Red.
The date the Moretti organization had been founded.
Red.
Beatrice examined the keypad.
“Move.”
“This is my house.”
“Then enjoy owning a locked door.”
He moved.
She examined faint wear patterns on the numbers.
Four digits were more polished than the others.
Within minutes she narrowed the possibilities.
The door clicked.
Enzo stared.
“You’re irritating.”
“So I’ve been told.”
The archive smelled of paper and dust.
Shelves covered the walls.
Old ledgers.
Photographs.
Hard drives.
Boxes.
Enzo switched on the lights.
His father had preserved decades of secrets.
Beatrice began searching 2019.
Enzo found the first reference.
A ledger.
Payments to a company called Northstar Logistics.
Beatrice froze.
“That was our cover company.”
Enzo looked at her.
“Your team?”
“Yes.”
Another file contained photographs.
Afghanistan.
Men beside armored vehicles.
Beatrice took the folder.
Her younger face stared back at her.
Thirty pounds lighter.
Hair shorter.
Six people stood beside her.
Daniel Voss among them.
Enzo studied the picture.
“That’s you.”
“Yes.”
“You looked angry.”
“I was happy.”
“That was happy?”
“For me.”
Enzo almost smiled.
Then Beatrice found another photograph.
A man stood behind her team.
Older.
Gray hair.
Italian features.
Enzo stopped breathing.
“My father.”
Beatrice turned.
“You said he was never there.”
“That’s what I believed.”
The room seemed smaller.
They searched faster.
Piece by piece, a buried history emerged.
Vittorio Moretti had quietly invested in overseas logistics contracts.
Not because he cared about military work.
Because logistics provided something organized crime valued more than almost anything.
Routes.
Ports.
Customs access.
Information.
But one document changed everything.
It referenced an internal investigation.
Someone had discovered that a network was diverting shipments and selling intelligence.
Beatrice’s team had been assigned unknowingly to transport evidence.
“That’s why we were attacked,” she whispered.
Enzo read.
“Your team wasn’t the target.”
“The evidence was.”
“And my father knew.”
Beatrice looked at him.
“Maybe.”
A sound came from the hallway.
Both turned.
Leo entered.
“Boss, you need to see this.”
He held a tablet.
Security footage.
A black SUV had stopped outside the estate gates.
A man stepped out.
Arthur Gallagher.
Alone.
Enzo frowned.
“He’s either brave or stupid.”
“Usually those travel together,” Beatrice said.
They met Gallagher in the damaged grand hall.
He looked around.
“Hell of a renovation.”
Enzo didn’t smile.
“You attacked my house.”
Gallagher raised both hands.
“If I had attacked your house, I wouldn’t be standing here.”
“You hit my trucks.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
Gallagher glanced at Beatrice.
“Because someone paid me.”
Beatrice stepped forward.
“Voss?”
Gallagher’s expression answered before his mouth did.
“He came to me six months ago,” Gallagher said. “Wanted information about Moretti’s estate.”
“Why?”
“He was looking for her.”
Gallagher pointed at Beatrice.
Enzo moved between them instinctively.
Beatrice noticed.
Gallagher continued.
“I didn’t know who she was. He showed me pictures. Offered money if I created pressure around the Moretti operation.”
“The trucks,” Enzo said.
“Diversion.”
Beatrice’s jaw tightened.
“You helped him.”
“I helped myself. There’s a difference.”
“Not to the dead.”
Gallagher’s confidence faded.
“He lied to me.”
“How?”
“He said he only wanted the woman.”
“And?”
“He hired professionals to wipe out Moretti’s leadership. That creates a war I don’t want.”
Enzo stepped closer.
“You expect me to believe you came here because you’re concerned about peace?”
“No.”
Gallagher reached slowly inside his coat.
Leo reached for his weapon.
Beatrice’s hand shot up.
“Wait.”
Gallagher removed an envelope.
He handed it to Beatrice.
Inside was a photograph.
Voss.
And another man.
Beatrice didn’t recognize him.
Enzo did.
“Father Michael?”
Beatrice looked at him.
“Who?”
“My father’s priest.”
Gallagher laughed.
“Priest?”
Enzo ignored him.
Father Michael had known the Moretti family for decades.
He had performed Enzo’s mother’s funeral.
He had sat beside Vittorio’s deathbed.
He knew everything.
Gallagher said, “Voss met him yesterday.”
“Where?”
“St. Catherine’s.”
Enzo turned toward the door.
Beatrice grabbed his arm.
“No.”
“He knew my father.”
“That’s exactly why we don’t walk into his church without knowing what he wants.”
Gallagher smirked.
“I like the maid.”
Enzo’s stare silenced him.
That afternoon, Enzo and Beatrice entered St. Catherine’s through separate doors.
The church was empty.
Candles burned near the altar.
Father Michael sat in the first pew.
He looked eighty.
Enzo approached.
“Father.”
The priest slowly turned.
His eyes landed on Beatrice.
Tears immediately appeared.
Beatrice stopped.
“You know me?”
Father Michael whispered:
“Your father had your eyes.”
The world seemed to tilt.
Beatrice hadn’t spoken about her father in twenty years.
He had supposedly died when she was a teenager.
“How do you know my father?”
The priest stood.
“Because he worked for Vittorio Moretti.”
Enzo stared.
Beatrice couldn’t move.
Father Michael reached inside his robe and removed a small key.
“Vittorio made me promise I would give this to you if you ever came looking.”
“To me?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
The priest looked at Enzo.
Then Beatrice.
“Because neither of you knows why she really came to this house.”
Beatrice’s voice dropped.
“I came here to disappear.”
Father Michael shook his head.
“No, child.”
He placed the key in her palm.
May you like
“You came home.”
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