Chapter 2 - Beneath the Burned Hotel
By 11:31 p.m., rain had swallowed the coast.
Giovanni’s black sedan moved along the cliffs without headlights for the final kilometer.
Isadora sat in the back seat beside him.
“You said I wasn’t coming.”
“You ignored me.”
“You left through the front.”
“You climbed into the trunk.”
“You should improve security.”
Gio stared at her.
Isadora crossed her arms.
“I am not waiting in a restaurant while you investigate my brother’s disappearance.”
“You understand there is a possibility that photograph was taken years ago?”
“Yes.”
“And another possibility that whoever sent it wants us both dead?”
“Yes.”
“You seem remarkably calm about that.”
“I’m not calm.”
“You look calm.”
“I’ve had practice.”
He looked toward the window.
That answer seemed to bother him.
Luca drove.
Matteo followed in another vehicle despite the message ordering Gio to come alone.
“You never listen to threats?” Isadora asked.
“Only well-written ones.”
“That one was fairly direct.”
“It lacked imagination.”
She nearly smiled.
Then the ruined hotel appeared.
The Albergo Stella Marina had once been one of the grandest properties on the Amalfi Coast.
Now its stone walls stood like a skeleton against the storm.
Twelve years earlier, a fire had destroyed the interior.
Officially, faulty wiring had caused it.
Unofficially, every person on the coast had a different theory.
The Rossi family had never rebuilt.
Gio entered first.
Isadora followed.
Rainwater dripped through holes in the roof.
“Marco!” she shouted.
Her voice echoed.
Nothing answered.
They reached the old ballroom.
A lantern burned in the center.
Beside it sat a wooden box.
Gio opened it.
Inside lay a cassette recorder.
An old one.
Isadora stared.
“My father had one like that.”
Gio pressed PLAY.
Static.
Then Vittorio Rossi’s voice.
Older.
Tired.
“If Giovanni is hearing this, then I failed.”
Gio froze.
Isadora looked at him.
The recording continued.
“There are things a father should tell his son. I told mine too late.”
Gio’s hand tightened around the recorder.
“Marco Marino discovered the accounts beneath the Stella Marina. He believed they belonged to me.”
Isadora stopped breathing.
“They did not.”
Static crackled.
“They belonged to my brother.”
Gio whispered:
“Uncle Carlo.”
Isadora remembered the name.
Carlo Rossi had died five years earlier in Switzerland.
Or so newspapers had reported.
Vittorio continued.
“I protected Carlo for too long because I believed blood was duty. I was wrong.”
Gio shut his eyes.
“Marco came to me with proof that Carlo was moving money through charities, hotels, construction contracts, and government funds. He wanted to expose him.”
Isadora’s legs nearly failed.
“Marco,” she whispered.
“I convinced Marco to disappear temporarily while I collected enough evidence to protect him. But Carlo learned the truth.”
A sound interrupted the recording.
Footsteps.
Then Vittorio’s voice returned.
“If Marco survives, tell Isadora that her brother did not abandon her.”
Tears burned her eyes.
“He was protecting her.”
The tape clicked off.
Isadora stood motionless.
Six years of anger collapsed inside her.
Marco had not left.
He had been hiding.
Or running.
Gio picked up the recorder.
“There should be more.”
A spotlight suddenly illuminated the ruined ballroom.
A man stood on the upper balcony.
Tall.
Gray-haired.
Alive.
Giovanni’s face drained of color.
“Impossible.”
Isadora followed his stare.
The man smiled.
“Hello, nephew.”
Carlo Rossi had never died in Switzerland.
May you like
And the secret that had destroyed Isadora’s family had just stepped out of the grave.
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