Chapter 2 - The Footprints That Shouldn't Exist
I didn't open the door.
"Elena."
The voice came again.
Not Alessandro.
Vittorio.
Every muscle in my body locked.
"Open up."
I looked down at the silver key in my palm.
The key that should have been buried.
The secondary intercom had gone silent.
Whatever—or whoever—had contacted me was gone.
Vittorio knocked again.
"Elena."
I slipped the key into the pocket of my robe, crossed the living room, and opened the door six inches.
Vittorio stood outside.
Carlo was behind him.
My stomach dropped.
"What are you doing here?"
Vittorio's gaze moved past my shoulder.
"Checking on my fiancée."
"At midnight?"
"You weren't answering."
"You left less than an hour ago."
"I changed my mind."
"About what?"
"Whether you should be alone tonight."
I tightened my grip on the door.
"I'm tired."
He put one hand against it.
The movement was gentle.
The meaning wasn't.
"Let me in."
"No."
His expression changed.
Not dramatically.
Just enough.
"I don't like being told no."
"Then marriage to me is going to be educational."
Carlo looked away as though hiding a reaction.
Vittorio stared at me for several seconds.
Then his gaze fell toward the hallway behind me.
"Did someone come here?"
"No."
"Did someone call?"
"No."
"Did someone contact you after the cemetery?"
My heartbeat thudded against my ribs.
"You're asking very specific questions."
"I'm concerned."
"You're suspicious."
"Should I be?"
I opened the door slightly wider.
"If you're going to accuse me of something, do it."
He stepped inside without permission.
Carlo followed.
I wanted to protest.
Instead, I watched.
Vittorio walked through my apartment slowly.
He checked the living room.
Kitchen.
Balcony.
He opened the hall closet.
"Do you usually search your future wife's apartment?"
"Only when someone has been playing games."
"Who?"
He looked at me.
"That's what I'm trying to determine."
Carlo remained near the door.
His face was unreadable.
Vittorio entered my bedroom.
I followed immediately.
He looked around.
The drawer was closed.
I had forgotten to close it.
No.
I hadn't.
I was certain it had been open when I left the room.
Someone had closed it.
My skin prickled.
Vittorio approached the window.
Then the drawer.
His fingers touched the handle.
I stopped breathing.
He pulled it open.
Empty.
The silver key was in my pocket.
Nothing else.
Vittorio closed it.
"Interesting."
"What?"
"Nothing."
He turned.
"You look frightened."
"You came into my apartment after midnight with your father's consigliere."
"I'm protecting you."
"From what?"
He walked closer.
"Old ghosts."
I forced myself not to react.
He touched my cheek.
I stepped away.
"Go home, Vittorio."
"Wednesday."
"I know."
His jaw flexed.
"You keep thinking something is going to save you."
I said nothing.
He leaned closer.
"Nothing is."
Then he left.
Carlo paused before following.
For one second, his eyes met mine.
He glanced almost imperceptibly toward my pocket.
The key.
Did he know?
Then he said, "Lock the door."
I did.
At 12:16, my phone vibrated.
Blocked number.
YOU DID WELL.
I stared at the words.
WHO ARE YOU?
No reply.
I typed again.
HOW DID YOU GET THE KEY?
Three dots appeared.
Disappeared.
Returned.
Finally:
BECAUSE I WAS THERE WHEN YOU PUT IT IN THE COFFIN.
My knees weakened.
Only three people had been there.
Me.
Father Tomas.
And the funeral director.
I typed:
ALessandro?
The message showed delivered.
No response.
I waited five minutes.
Ten.
At 12:31, another message arrived.
DON'T USE MY NAME ON THIS PHONE.
I sat down hard on the edge of my bed.
My hands began shaking.
It wasn't proof.
Anyone could write that.
Anyone could know things.
Except the key.
No one should have had that key.
I held it beneath the lamp.
Tiny scratch on the bow.
A dent along one side.
Real.
His.
I remembered buying it for him because Alessandro never carried decorative things.
I had attached the key to a small silver Saint Michael medal.
"You need one sentimental object," I'd told him.
"I have you."
"That's a terrible answer."
"I thought it was excellent."
I had laughed.
Now the medal was gone.
Only the key remained.
I typed:
IF IT'S YOU, TELL ME SOMETHING NO ONE ELSE KNOWS.
The reply came immediately.
THE NIGHT YOU FIRST SAID YOU LOVED ME, YOU WERE WEARING TWO DIFFERENT SOCKS.
My breath broke.
No one knew that.
No one.
We had been in Alessandro's private study at two in the morning after a thunderstorm knocked out power.
I had removed my shoes because they were wet.
One sock black.
One navy.
Alessandro had noticed.
I had been mortified.
He had teased me for months.
Tears blurred the screen.
I wrote:
WHY?
The answer took longer.
I wanted to ask a thousand questions.
Why had he let me bury him?
Why had he left me alone?
Why had he allowed the Morettis to surround me?
Why hadn't he returned sooner?
Instead I stared at the one word on my screen.
WHY?
Finally:
BECAUSE IF THEY BELIEVED I LIVED, YOU WOULD HAVE DIED.
I covered my mouth.
Then:
I'M SORRY.
That almost hurt more.
Alessandro Duca did not apologize casually.
He had once apologized to me for missing dinner.
Once for breaking a promise.
Once for frightening me during an argument.
I could count every apology.
I typed:
I MOURNED YOU FOR TWO YEARS.
Three dots.
I BUILT YOUR GRAVE.
Three dots.
I PUT YOUR KEY IN THAT COFFIN.
The reply came.
I KNOW.
That made anger explode through the shock.
YOU KNOW?
YOU WATCHED ME?
A long pause.
YES.
I stood so fast that the chair beside my bed toppled.
I paced.
Two years.
Two years of crying into pillows because I didn't want my mother to hear.
Two years of waking up reaching toward an empty side of the bed.
Two years visiting a grave while the man inside it was alive somewhere.
YOU LET ME THINK YOU WERE DEAD.
His response:
YES.
I hated him in that second.
I loved him too.
That was worse.
I typed:
MEET ME.
NO.
MEET ME OR NEVER CONTACT ME AGAIN.
The answer came:
TOMORROW. 6 PM. ST. ANTHONY'S OLD RECTORY. COME THROUGH THE EAST ENTRANCE.
Then another:
TELL NO ONE.
At 5:52 the next evening, I stood outside the abandoned rectory attached to Saint Anthony's Church in Queens.
It had been closed for renovation.
No workers remained.
I entered through the east door.
Inside, the hallway smelled of plaster and old wood.
"Alessandro?"
Nothing.
I reached the former dining room.
A lamp turned on.
A man stood in the corner.
Tall.
Charcoal overcoat.
Dark hair swept back.
Light stubble.
The same shoulders.
The same stillness.
My body recognized him before my mind did.
"Elena."
I couldn't move.
He stepped into the light.
Two years vanished.
Then returned all at once.
I crossed the room and slapped him.
The sound cracked through the empty building.
Alessandro didn't move.
I slapped him again.
"You were alive."
"Yes."
"You were alive."
"I know."
"I buried you."
His jaw tightened.
"I know."
I struck his chest with both hands.
"You let me bury you!"
He caught my wrists.
Not hard.
Just enough.
Tears spilled down my face.
"I hated you for dying."
His expression broke.
Only slightly.
But I saw it.
"I know."
"I begged God to send you back."
His grip loosened.
"I know."
"Stop saying that!"
He released me.
I stepped away.
For several seconds, neither of us spoke.
Then Alessandro reached inside his coat.
I flinched.
His face tightened.
He removed a small silver voice recorder.
Old.
Scratched.
"Do you remember this?"
I did.
He used it during meetings when he didn't trust phones.
"What is it?"
"The reason I died."
I stared at him.
He placed it on the table.
"Two years ago, someone inside my organization sold my movements to Salvatore Moretti."
"Who?"
"I didn't know."
"And now?"
"I know enough."
He pressed a button.
Static.
Then Alessandro's voice from two years earlier.
"Warehouse is clear."
Another man answered.
A voice I recognized.
Carlo Vieri.
My blood chilled.
Then Salvatore Moretti spoke.
"Make sure Rossi's girl believes he's dead."
I looked at Alessandro.
The recording continued.
Another voice.
Male.
Younger.
Vittorio.
"If she sees the body?"
"There won't be enough left."
My stomach twisted.
Alessandro stopped the recorder.
"They planned to kill me."
"They failed."
"They killed someone."
I stared.
"Who was in the coffin?"
His face darkened.
"A man they wanted erased."
"Who?"
"I don't know his real name yet."
I looked at the recorder.
"Why not take this to the police?"
"Because this isn't the complete recording."
"What do you mean?"
"The last six minutes were erased."
"By whom?"
"Someone who had access after the attack."
I felt sick.
"And you stayed dead for two years because—"
"Because the moment Moretti's people discovered I survived, they started asking whether you knew."
His voice lowered.
"They had men outside your mother's house within twelve hours."
I closed my eyes.
"So you disappeared."
"I made sure the evidence said I died."
"You made me believe it too."
"If I told you, they'd have seen it."
"You don't know that."
"I know you."
The words hit differently.
"You would have waited."
I said nothing.
"You would have looked for me in every crowd. You would have refused to move on. You would have lied badly every time Moretti spoke my name."
Despite everything, that was true.
"I watched them," Alessandro said. "I built evidence. I found the men Salvatore bought. I traced accounts. Then six months ago they changed strategy."
"The wedding."
He nodded.
"Vittorio marrying you gives Salvatore legal access to properties and trusts connected to my former holdings through an agreement I made years ago."
I stared at him.
"What agreement?"
Alessandro looked ashamed.
"I named you beneficiary of everything."
My chest tightened.
"You did what?"
"If I died, control of several legitimate Duca companies transferred to you."
"No one told me."
"Because the attorney handling them disappeared."
"Moretti?"
"Yes."
I thought about the forced wedding.
The threats.
The rush.
"They don't want Vittorio to marry me because he wants me."
"No."
"They want my signature."
"Yes."
"Then stop the wedding."
Alessandro looked at me.
"We can't."
I laughed bitterly.
"You came back from the dead and that's the part you can't do?"
"If we stop it now, Salvatore knows I'm moving."
"Good."
"No."
His expression hardened.
"I need him inside that church."
"Why?"
"Because someone else will be there."
"Who?"
"The person who erased the recording."
He stepped closer.
"Elena, I need you to go through with everything until I enter."
My heart pounded.
"You want me to stand at the altar with Vittorio?"
"For a few minutes."
"You disappeared for two years and came back to ask me to trust you for a few minutes?"
"Yes."
The answer was so Alessandro that I almost cried again.
I looked at him.
Really looked.
There were new lines near his eyes.
A pale scar at his temple.
He seemed harder.
Tired.
Alive.
"Did you ever stop loving me?"
His face changed instantly.
"No."
"Then why didn't you come sooner?"
"Because loving you and keeping you alive became the same thing."
I hated that answer because part of me understood it.
He reached toward me.
Stopped before touching my face.
"May I?"
I nodded once.
His fingers brushed my cheek.
My eyes closed.
Two years disappeared for half a second.
Then a floorboard creaked outside the room.
Alessandro's hand dropped.
His entire body changed.
Still.
Alert.
He reached beneath his coat.
I turned toward the doorway.
A shadow crossed the frosted glass.
May you like
Then the handle began to turn.
Someone had followed me.
