Chapter 4 - The Man Who Was Supposed To Be Dead
The message stayed on my screen.
One sentence.
One name.
A name that should have belonged only to a grave.
"He's alive."
Isabella's voice was barely a whisper.
I looked at her.
"Who?"
She didn't answer.
That scared me more than anything.
Because Isabella Delgado had survived seven years of hiding.
She had protected a child from people who wanted her gone.
She had carried a secret that could have destroyed my family.
But now?
One name had taken away all her courage.
"Isabella."
She looked at me.
Her eyes were filled with something I had not seen before.
Not fear.
Not exactly.
Regret.
"The person who sent that message..."
She stopped.
"Who?"
Her fingers moved toward Emma.
A protective instinct.
The kind a mother had when she knew danger was close.
"Alessandro, we need to leave."
"No."
The answer came immediately.
She stared at me.
"You don't understand."
"I understand enough."
I held up my phone.
"Someone followed us."
I pointed toward the photograph.
"Someone took this picture while we were standing here."
My voice lowered.
"They know Emma exists."
Isabella's face changed.
Because that was the one thing she feared most.
Not herself.
Not me.
Emma.
"We leave now."
She grabbed Emma's hand.
But I stopped her.
"Wait."
She looked back.
"What?"
I walked toward the bench.
Toward the small stone house Emma had built.
The little creation that had started this entire nightmare.
I picked up the red stone.
The one with my father's symbol.
The one that had been placed in a child's basket.
The one that somehow carried a message from a dead man.
"This was from my father."
Isabella nodded.
"Yes."
"Why did he give this to Emma?"
She hesitated.
"He didn't."
That made me look at her.
"Then who did?"
Silence.
I felt my patience disappear.
"Isabella."
She looked at Emma.
Then back at me.
"Your father gave it to someone else."
"Who?"
She swallowed.
"Someone who promised to protect us if he couldn't."
I already knew the answer would hurt.
Because every secret surrounding my family had one thing in common.
Someone close.
Someone trusted.
"Who?"
Isabella finally said it.
"Your right hand."
The words hit like a bullet.
I stared at her.
"No."
She didn't look away.
"Yes."
"Impossible."
"He was there when your father died."
I remembered that night.
The hospital.
The guards outside.
The people around me.
My father's final hours.
And one person who never left.
Marco Vieri.
My father's most loyal man.
My closest advisor.
The man who had stood beside me for twelve years.
The man who knew every move I made before I made it.
"Marco?"
Isabella nodded.
My mind rejected it.
Not because I trusted easily.
Because Marco was the one person I had never questioned.
He had been there when I lost my mother.
When my father died.
When I took control of the family.
He had helped me survive.
"He protected us," Isabella said.
"Then why didn't he tell me?"
"Because he was trying to find who betrayed your father."
I looked at her.
"You're saying Marco knew?"
"He knew something was wrong."
"How much?"
Isabella looked down.
"Enough to know someone inside your organization wanted Emma dead."
The anger came back.
Stronger.
Hotter.
Someone inside.
That phrase kept returning.
Someone inside.
The attack.
The missing years.
My father's warning.
Everything pointed back home.
I turned away.
I needed control.
A lifetime of violence had taught me one rule.
Never make decisions while angry.
Anger was useful.
But only when controlled.
Emma approached slowly.
"Are you mad?"
I looked down.
At my daughter.
The question stopped me.
Because she wasn't asking about the danger.
She was asking about me.
I crouched slightly.
"No."
She studied my face.
"You're doing the angry face."
I almost smiled.
Almost.
"My angry face?"
She nodded.
"Your eyebrows go down."
For a moment, the world became simple.
No enemies.
No betrayal.
No dead men sending messages.
Just a little girl telling me I looked angry.
"What should I do instead?"
Emma thought carefully.
Then picked up a blue stone.
"When my mama is angry, she holds something small."
She handed it to me.
"Why?"
"Because small things remind people not everything is broken."
I looked at the stone.
A child had no idea how powerful her words were.
I closed my hand around it.
Then I stood.
"Where are you staying?"
Isabella looked suspicious.
"Why?"
"Because you're coming with me."
Her expression hardened.
"No."
The answer surprised me.
"No?"
"I can't go back to your world."
"My world?"
She looked at me.
"Alessandro, your world is why Emma needed to hide."
The words hurt because they were true.
But they also made me angry.
Because she was right about one thing.
My world had created this.
But it was still my responsibility to fix it.
"Someone took six years from me."
Her eyes softened.
"I know."
"Someone took my daughter away."
"I know."
"Someone tried to kill her."
Her face broke slightly.
"I know."
I stepped closer.
"Then don't ask me to walk away."
For a moment, neither of us moved.
Seven years disappeared.
Not completely.
But enough.
Then Emma quietly spoke.
"Can Alessandro come with us?"
Isabella looked at her.
The question was innocent.
But the answer carried everything.
Finally, Isabella looked away.
"Yes."
That single word changed everything.
An hour later, we were inside my private vehicle.
No security convoy.
No visible guards.
Only me, Isabella, and Emma.
I wanted privacy.
I needed answers before anyone else knew.
Emma sat in the back seat.
She was drawing on a small notebook.
I watched her through the mirror.
Every few seconds, she looked at me.
Like she was trying to understand who I was.
I understood the feeling.
I was doing the same.
"Does she know?"
Isabella looked out the window.
"Know what?"
"About me."
Silence.
Then:
"No."
My hands tightened.
"Why?"
"Because I didn't know if you were safe."
The answer hurt.
But I couldn't argue.
Not after everything.
"Did you tell her about her father?"
"No."
"Then who did she think I was?"
Isabella looked at me.
"Someone who needed a little kindness."
I looked back at Emma.
A strange feeling moved through me.
For years, people had come to me because they wanted something.
Money.
Protection.
Power.
But my daughter?
She had approached me because she thought I was sad.
Nothing more.
Nothing less.
My phone vibrated.
I looked down.
Another unknown number.
This time, a video.
I opened it.
The screen showed my father's office.
The office where he had died.
My breathing slowed.
Because someone was inside.
The camera moved.
Slowly.
Across the desk.
Across the old paintings.
Across the chair where my father used to sit.
Then a man stepped into frame.
Older.
Tired.
But alive.
I knew him.
Everyone in my family knew him.
Because three years ago, we buried him.
The video continued.
The man looked directly into the camera.
Like he knew I was watching.
Then he spoke.
"Alessandro."
My blood went cold.
Because the voice belonged to my father.
And then the recording showed the impossible.
My father turned toward someone standing beside him.
Someone I recognized.
Someone who had been at his funeral.
Someone who had cried beside me.
Someone who had helped me bury him.
May you like
The video froze.
Right before the second person turned around.
