Chapter 3 - The Man Wearing Isabella’s Crest
Lorenzo had trusted Matteo Duca longer than he had trusted almost anyone alive.
That fact became poison the moment he saw the medallion.
Matteo was sixty-three, broad-shouldered despite age, silver-haired, and immaculate in a charcoal suit. He had taught Lorenzo how to shoot at fourteen. He had stood beside Lorenzo at his father’s funeral. He had held Lorenzo upright outside St. Michael’s while two coffins were loaded into a hearse.
Now he wore Isabella’s family symbol against his chest.
Lorenzo pulled his gun.
Marco did the same.
Matteo did not flinch.
“Put it down, nephew.”
“You have three seconds.”
“You’re making the mistake Isabella feared you would make.”
“One.”
Matteo sighed.
“Lucia is alive.”
Lorenzo’s finger tightened.
“Two.”
“And I helped keep her that way.”
Lorenzo stopped.
Jeppe closed his eyes.
Matteo looked at him.
“You should have told him sooner.”
Jeppe laughed bitterly.
“From you, that means very little.”
Lorenzo’s gun remained raised.
“Why are you wearing that?”
Matteo touched the medallion.
“Because it belonged to Isabella’s mother.”
“How did you get it?”
“She gave it to me.”
“Isabella?”
“No.”
Matteo looked directly at Lorenzo.
“Her mother.”
Lorenzo stared.
“Her mother died before I met Isabella.”
“That was the story.”
“Everyone in this family appears unusually comfortable with fake deaths.”
Matteo almost smiled.
“You’re still you.”
“Not for long if you keep talking in riddles.”
Matteo’s expression hardened.
“Isabella’s biological mother was Sofia Carvelli.”
The name struck Lorenzo from history.
Sofia Carvelli had vanished during the purge that destroyed the family.
“She survived?”
“For twenty-three years afterward.”
“And you knew her?”
“I loved her.”
The room fell silent.
Lorenzo lowered the gun slightly.
Matteo continued.
“Before your father married your mother, before you were old enough to remember, I was assigned to negotiate with the Carvellis. Sofia and I became close.”
“How close?”
“Close enough that Isabella was my daughter.”
Lorenzo’s gun lowered completely.
He stared at his uncle.
“My wife was your daughter?”
“Yes.”
“Then Isabella and I—”
“No blood relation.”
Matteo understood the question immediately.
“I’m your mother’s brother, not your father’s. You and Isabella shared no blood.”
Lorenzo turned away, trying to reorganize his life in real time.
“You knew when I met her.”
“Yes.”
“And said nothing.”
“Sofia demanded it.”
“Why?”
“To keep Isabella outside Carvelli politics.”
“But she knew eventually.”
“She discovered the truth after Lucia was conceived.”
“And that’s when the danger started.”
“Yes.”
Lorenzo looked at the medallion.
“Who wanted Lucia?”
Matteo’s jaw tightened.
“A coalition of men who built fortunes from Carvelli territory after the family collapsed. Lucia’s existence could unite old loyalists around a legitimate heir.”
“She was a baby.”
“Symbols have started wars before they learned to speak.”
Lorenzo thought of St. Michael’s.
“The Falcones.”
“They were hired muscle.”
“By whom?”
“That was what Isabella spent her final months trying to learn.”
Lorenzo looked at Jeppe.
“And all of you decided I couldn’t be trusted with the truth.”
Matteo stepped closer.
“We decided you loved your daughter enough to burn Europe down looking for her.”
“I would have.”
“Exactly.”
Lorenzo nearly struck him.
Instead his phone vibrated.
Another message.
Fifteen minutes.
Come alone or she disappears again.
Lorenzo showed Matteo.
“You own the house?”
“Yes.”
“Then you’re coming.”
“The message says alone.”
“I stopped obeying anonymous messages around the time I learned my child had been hidden from me for six years.”
Matteo glanced at Marco.
“We can position men outside.”
“No.”
“Lorenzo—”
“No visible team.”
He checked the address again.
Forty minutes away under normal traffic.
He could make it in thirty.
Matteo caught his arm before he left.
“Whoever sent that message knows things they shouldn’t.”
“You think?”
“The photograph of Lucia is two years old.”
“I know.”
“How?”
“Jeppe.”
Matteo looked at the steward.
Jeppe nodded.
Matteo’s face hardened.
“Then this may be the same person Isabella feared.”
“Good.”
“Good?”
Lorenzo buttoned his jacket over the gun.
“I’ve spent six years with a grave.”
His eyes went cold.
“I’d like something alive to confront.”
The drive took twenty-eight minutes.
Lorenzo went alone in the car.
Marco and Matteo followed far behind using an unmarked vehicle despite Lorenzo’s order, because neither man was foolish enough to obey him completely.
The address led outside the city to a stone villa surrounded by cypress trees.
Lorenzo recognized it immediately from old photographs.
Isabella had once shown him a picture of herself as a child in front of the same fountain.
She had called it her foster family’s summer home.
Another half-truth.
The iron gate stood open.
Lorenzo drove through.
No guards appeared.
No cameras were visible, which meant there were probably many.
He entered the villa.
“Lucia?”
Nothing.
“Maria?”
A child laughed somewhere upstairs.
Lorenzo’s heart stopped.
Then Emma came running around the corner.
“Sir!”
She crossed the hall toward him.
Lorenzo crouched.
“Emma.”
She threw her arms around his neck.
He held her automatically.
“Where’s your mother?”
“Upstairs.”
“Are you hurt?”
She shook her head.
“Where is the other girl?”
Emma pointed.
“Lucy?”
Lorenzo almost collapsed at the nickname.
“Lucy.”
“She’s with her mama.”
Lorenzo stared.
“Her mama?”
Emma nodded happily.
Lorenzo stood.
His pulse roared in his ears.
He climbed the stairs.
At the top stood Maria.
She looked exhausted.
“Sir.”
“Move.”
“Please listen first.”
“Where is my daughter?”
Maria swallowed.
“In the bedroom.”
“And who is with her?”
Maria’s eyes filled with tears.
“Someone you need to see.”
Lorenzo stepped around her.
She caught his wrist.
“If you walk in angry, you’ll frighten Lucia.”
He looked down at her hand until she released him.
“I am not angry with my daughter.”
“I know.”
“Then move.”
Maria moved.
Lorenzo crossed the hall.
A bedroom door stood partially open.
He heard a girl speaking softly.
“No, Mama. Emma said he looks scary, but he’s nice.”
A woman answered.
“You shouldn’t believe everything Emma says.”
Lorenzo stopped.
The voice.
Every muscle in his body locked.
Not similar.
Not remembered incorrectly.
Her.
Isabella.
He pushed the door open.
A little girl sat on the bed.
Six years old.
Dark hair.
Brown eyes.
She held a stuffed rabbit by one ear.
Beside the window stood a woman.
Thin.
Paler than memory.
A scar ran from her left temple into her hairline.
But no grave could erase the way she looked at him.
Isabella.
Lorenzo did not speak.
Neither did she.
Lucia looked between them.
“Mama?”
Isabella’s lips trembled.
Lorenzo took one step.
Then another.
“You died.”
It was all he could manage.
Isabella covered her mouth.
“I know.”
“I buried you.”
“I know.”
“I carried you out of that church.”
“I know.”
His face twisted.
“No. You don’t know.”
Lucia slid off the bed.
Isabella reached for her.
Lorenzo stopped himself.
This was his daughter.
His child.
Alive.
Standing ten feet away.
Lucia stared at him with cautious curiosity.
“Are you Lorenzo?”
He almost laughed.
His own daughter knew him by first name.
“Yes.”
“Emma said you’re my daddy.”
Isabella closed her eyes.
Lorenzo dropped to one knee.
His voice broke.
“Yes.”
Lucia looked at her mother.
“Really?”
Isabella nodded.
The child studied him again.
Then she walked forward.
Slowly.
Lorenzo did not move.
Lucia stopped in front of him.
She touched the tattoo on his neck.
“Does this hurt?”
He laughed through tears he had not permitted himself in six years.
“Not anymore.”
She smiled.
Isabella turned away, crying silently.
Lucia wrapped her arms around Lorenzo.
The world ended.
Then began again.
He held her.
Carefully at first.
Then tighter.
Not enough to frighten her.
Enough to prove she was real.
Her hair smelled like soap and strawberries.
Her small heartbeat pressed against his chest.
He buried his face against her shoulder.
“My baby.”
Lucia whispered, “I’m not a baby.”
A broken laugh escaped him.
“No.”
He looked at Isabella.
“You owe me six years.”
Her face crumpled.
“I know.”
“Why?”
Before she could answer, glass shattered downstairs.
Maria screamed.
Lorenzo was on his feet instantly.
He pushed Lucia behind him.
A gunshot echoed through the villa.
Then another.
Isabella grabbed Lucia and moved toward the bathroom.
Lorenzo drew his weapon.
“Stay here.”
“No,” Isabella said. “They found us.”
“Who?”
She looked at him.
“The man who ordered the church attack.”
Another shot.
Someone shouted downstairs.
Lorenzo moved toward the door.
Isabella caught his sleeve.
“Lorenzo.”
“What?”
“If he is here, then Matteo is already dead.”
Lorenzo froze.
A voice came from the hallway.
Calm.
Familiar.
“Not yet.”
Matteo appeared at the far end with blood on his shirt.
Behind him stood Marco.
May you like
A gun was pressed against Marco’s head.
And the man holding it was Jeppe.
