Chapter 5 - The Mafia Boss Who Lost His Trust
The message remained on Aleandro Moretti’s phone for exactly thirty-seven seconds.
Then it disappeared.
Not because he deleted it.
Not because the sender changed their mind.
Because the message had been designed to vanish.
Aleandro stared at the empty screen.
A normal person might have considered that a threat.
Aleandro considered it evidence.
Someone was confident enough to contact him directly.
Someone knew his security systems.
Someone knew what questions would disturb him most.
And most importantly…
Someone knew Isabella.
Ask your fiancée what she was promised.
Those words had been chosen carefully.
Not “ask what she did.”
Not “ask what she knows.”
What she was promised.
That meant Isabella was not simply hiding information.
She was connected to something.
Something someone else believed they could use against him.
Aleandro placed the phone on the desk.
The office was silent again.
But this silence was different.
Before, silence meant control.
Now it meant someone was waiting.
He looked at the painting leaning against the wall.
The same painting that had hidden a secret for months.
A piece of art his family had owned for generations.
A symbol of tradition.
A symbol of legacy.
Now it was something else.
A reminder.
Someone had been inside his world.
Someone had touched the things he considered untouchable.
Aleandro picked up the evidence case containing the listening device.
The small red light was gone.
But he could still see it in his mind.
Blinking.
Watching.
Recording.
A tiny machine had changed everything he believed about the people around him.
The next morning, Aleandro called a meeting.
Not at his office.
Not at the penthouse.
Somewhere else.
Somewhere nobody expected.
The old Moretti private residence on the outskirts of the city.
The house had belonged to his grandfather.
A massive stone mansion surrounded by tall trees and iron gates.
Most people knew it existed.
Very few had ever entered.
Aleandro preferred it that way.
Secrets survived better in places forgotten by the world.
Inside the old library, Marco Bellini stood across from him with several folders.
“You found something?” Aleandro asked.
Marco opened the first folder.
“We traced the device.”
Aleandro remained standing.
“And?”
“It was purchased through three different companies.”
“Fake companies?”
“Yes.”
“Location?”
Marco hesitated.
“Manhattan.”
Aleandro’s eyes narrowed.
“So someone local.”
“Possibly.”
“Not possibly.”
Marco looked at him.
Aleandro continued.
“Someone local had access to my office, knew my schedule, knew my security patterns, and knew enough about the house to place a device without being noticed.”
Marco nodded.
“You are right.”
Aleandro looked at the folder.
“What else?”
Marco opened another file.
“Something unusual.”
Inside were photographs.
Security images.
Aleandro looked carefully.
One photograph showed the Moretti penthouse entrance.
Another showed the private elevator.
Another showed the hallway outside his office.
Then Marco placed down the final image.
Aleandro stopped.
It showed Isabella.
Entering the penthouse.
Late at night.
Alone.
The timestamp was three months earlier.
Aleandro stared at the image.
“When was this?”
“Three months ago.”
“Why was this not reported?”
Marco’s expression changed.
“Because she was authorized.”
Aleandro looked up.
“By who?”
Silence.
That was enough.
His own security system had allowed her access.
Not because someone hacked it.
Because someone inside his organization approved it.
Aleandro closed the folder.
“Find the person who authorized this.”
Marco nodded.
“And Isabella?”
Aleandro looked toward the window.
Snow had begun falling outside.
Soft.
Quiet.
Almost peaceful.
But Aleandro knew better.
Storms rarely announced themselves.
“Do nothing.”
Marco frowned.
“Sir?”
“If she believes we do not know, she will reveal more.”
“And if she is in danger?”
Aleandro’s expression hardened.
“Then we find out who put her there.”
That evening, Isabella came to see him.
She did not call first.
She simply arrived.
Aleandro noticed that.
Before, it would have felt natural.
Now every small thing had meaning.
She entered the library slowly.
She looked tired.
Not physically.
Emotionally.
The confidence she usually carried was gone.
“Aleandro.”
He looked up from his desk.
“Isabella.”
She noticed the distance between them.
The way he said her name.
The way he did not stand.
The way he did not move toward her.
“You know.”
It was not a question.
Aleandro remained silent.
She closed her eyes briefly.
“I thought you would.”
“How long?”
She looked at him.
“What?”
“How long have you known about them?”
Isabella swallowed.
“I do not know everything.”
“That was not my question.”
She looked away.
“A few months.”
The answer was quiet.
But it was enough.
Aleandro stood.
“A few months.”
“I was trying to understand.”
“You knew someone was watching me for months?”
“I suspected.”
“You suspected?”
“Yes.”
“And you said nothing.”
Isabella’s eyes filled with frustration.
“Because I was afraid.”
Aleandro stared at her.
“You?”
The word surprised her.
“Yes. Me.”
She stepped closer.
“You think I am not afraid of anything because I am with you. Because I stand beside you. Because everyone thinks being Aleandro Moretti’s fiancée means I am protected.”
Her voice lowered.
“But sometimes being close to you is the most dangerous place in the world.”
That sentence affected him.
Because there was truth inside it.
A truth he did not want to accept.
“Who are they?”
“I cannot tell you.”
His expression hardened.
“Still.”
“I do not know their entire plan.”
“But you know enough.”
“Yes.”
“Then tell me.”
Isabella looked at him.
“I was approached before I met you.”
Aleandro froze.
The room became silent.
“By who?”
She shook her head.
“I do not know their real names.”
“Then what did they want?”
Her voice became softer.
“They wanted information.”
“About me.”
“Yes.”
“About my family.”
“Yes.”
“And you agreed?”
“No.”
The answer came immediately.
Aleandro watched her.
“I never worked for them.”
“Then why approach you?”
Isabella looked down.
“Because they knew something.”
“What?”
She hesitated.
Then:
“They knew about my father.”
Aleandro said nothing.
“Your father?”
“He was involved with people connected to your family years ago.”
“What kind of involvement?”
Isabella looked away.
“The kind that creates enemies.”
Aleandro felt something shift.
The story was becoming larger.
The device.
The message.
The surveillance.
It was not only about him.
It was about history.
Old wounds.
Old revenge.
“Why marry me?”
The question escaped before he could stop it.
Isabella looked hurt.
“Aleandro…”
“Answer me.”
She took a deep breath.
“Because I loved you.”
The words were simple.
But they carried weight.
“I did not expect to love you.”
She stepped closer.
“When I first met you, I saw what everyone else saw.”
“What?”
“A dangerous man.”
Aleandro said nothing.
“But then I saw the person behind it.”
Her eyes softened.
“You were kind when nobody was watching. You protected people who could never repay you. You pretended you did not care because caring made you vulnerable.”
Aleandro looked away.
Because that was the part of himself he hated showing.
The part he had spent years hiding.
“I fell in love with that man.”
A long silence followed.
Then Aleandro asked:
“And now?”
Isabella looked at him.
“Now I am afraid you will never believe me again.”
The honesty in her voice was difficult.
Because lies were easier to fight.
Truth was harder.
Aleandro wanted to believe her.
But wanting something had never been enough.
Not in his world.
Later that night, Aleandro returned to the office.
The painting was still there.
The device was gone.
But the questions remained.
He opened a drawer beneath his desk.
Inside was an old family file.
Documents from years ago.
Information about every person connected to the Moretti family.
He searched Isabella’s name.
Nothing.
Then he searched her father.
And stopped.
A photograph fell from the file.
A young man standing beside Aleandro’s father decades earlier.
The name beneath it made his blood run cold.
Because he recognized it.
Not from the past.
From the present.
The man who had disappeared twenty years ago.
The man everyone believed was dead.
The man who had once tried to destroy the Moretti empire.
Aleandro picked up the photograph.
Behind it was a handwritten note.
One sentence.
The daughter is not the threat. The father’s unfinished war is.
Aleandro stared at the words.
Then his phone rang.
Unknown number.
He answered.
No voice came through.
Only a recording.
A child’s voice.
Emma.
But she was not speaking to him.
She was repeating something she had heard.
Something she had accidentally recorded.
A man’s voice followed.
Cold.
Calm.
Familiar.
“Tell Isabella the plan is already moving.”
Aleandro froze.
Because he knew that voice.
He had heard it before.
A long time ago.
And if that voice was back…
May you like
Then the enemy he thought he had buried was alive.
And closer than anyone imagined.
