Chapter 3 - The Man Who Was Supposed to Be Dead
The basement door opened.
I already knew who was standing there.
But knowing and seeing were two different things.
Marco Rizzo stepped into the garage.
Calm.
Perfectly dressed.
Not a single sign of panic on his face.
For a moment, nobody moved.
The fake driver was still pressed against the Mercedes.
My hand was still around his wrist.
Emma stood behind Sophia.
And Marco looked at all of us like he had walked into a meeting he was supposed to attend.
Not a crime scene.
Not a betrayal.
A meeting.
“Boss,” Marco said.
That was the first thing he said.
Not an explanation.
Not a question.
Not an apology.
Just one word.
Boss.
The same word he had used for twelve years.
I stared at him.
“You have exactly one chance.”
His expression remained unchanged.
“Chance for what?”
“To explain why a stranger is wearing my driver’s uniform.”
Marco looked toward the fake driver.
Then toward Enzo.
Then back at me.
A normal man would have reacted.
A normal man would have looked shocked.
Confused.
Angry.
Marco did none of those things.
He simply sighed.
And that was when I knew.
He had known.
Maybe not everything.
Maybe not every detail.
But enough.
Enough to walk into a garage where my driver was tied up and not immediately ask who did it.
Enough to see a stranger wearing Enzo’s clothes and not reach for his weapon.
Enough to stand there like he had been expecting this moment.
My grip tightened around the fake driver’s wrist.
“Did you send him?”
Marco looked at me.
“No.”
The answer came too quickly.
Too smoothly.
I stepped closer.
“You didn’t even ask who he was.”
Silence.
That was the mistake.
A small mistake.
The kind most people would ignore.
But I had built my life on noticing small things.
Marco looked away for less than a second.
That was all I needed.
“You know him.”
Marco’s jaw tightened.
“Lorenzo.”
“No.”
My voice became colder.
“You don’t get to use my name like that right now.”
The garage became completely silent.
Even the fake driver stopped struggling.
Marco and I had been through wars together.
Not the kind written about in newspapers.
The kind where you watched people disappear and learned not to ask too many questions.
He had been beside me when my father died.
He had stood in the rain beside my family.
He had carried my father’s coffin.
And now he was standing in front of me while another man wore my driver’s uniform.
I wanted to believe there was an explanation.
I wanted to believe Marco was still the man I knew.
But trust was not built from memories.
It was built from choices.
And his choices that morning were destroying twelve years.
I released the fake driver and pushed him toward one of my guards who had finally arrived after hearing the disturbance.
“Take him.”
Two guards moved forward.
The fake driver didn’t resist.
That bothered me.
People who got caught usually fought.
They begged.
They panicked.
This man looked relieved.
Like his job was already finished.
I noticed.
Everything mattered.
“Search him,” I ordered.
One guard checked his pockets.
Another removed a small communication device hidden inside his jacket.
Marco watched.
Still silent.
I turned back to him.
“Now you talk.”
Marco looked at Enzo.
Then at Emma.
His eyes softened slightly when he saw her.
That was the first real emotion I saw from him.
Fear.
Not for himself.
For her.
“Emma should not have been involved.”
I froze.
The words came out before he could stop them.
“You know her name.”
Marco said nothing.
I walked closer.
“You know my maid’s daughter.”
“Everyone in this house knows Emma.”
“No.”
I shook my head.
“You knew exactly why she followed me.”
Marco looked down.
For the first time, he looked older.
Tired.
Like he had been carrying something heavy for years.
“Lorenzo, listen to me.”
“No.”
My voice echoed through the garage.
“You listen to me.”
I pointed toward Enzo.
“My driver was attacked.”
I pointed toward the fake driver.
“Someone tried to replace him.”
Then I held up the paper I found.
“And someone brought back a name that should have died twelve years ago.”
Marco’s face changed.
Only slightly.
But enough.
He knew the name.
“You recognize it.”
Marco didn’t answer.
That was the answer.
I unfolded the paper again.
The handwriting was old.
The ink was faded.
But the name was clear.
Adriano Duca.
My older brother.
My father’s first son.
The man everyone said died twelve years ago.
The man whose car had gone over the mountain road outside the city.
The man whose body was never recovered.
Officially, Adriano was dead.
My father buried an empty coffin.
I was twenty-eight years old when it happened.
Young.
Angry.
Unprepared.
After Adriano’s death, everything changed.
My father became colder.
The family became more violent.
And eventually, the responsibility of the entire organization fell onto me.
I had spent twelve years believing I was carrying the legacy of a dead man.
Now his name was appearing inside my garage.
Inside my driver’s coat.
Inside my house.
I looked at Marco.
“Tell me I’m wrong.”
He said nothing.
“Tell me Adriano is dead.”
Still nothing.
My heartbeat slowed.
Because sometimes silence was more dangerous than an answer.
“Marco.”
His eyes met mine.
“I never said he was dead.”
The words hit harder than any weapon.
The entire garage disappeared for a second.
I heard nothing.
Not the guards.
Not the cars.
Not the lights above us.
Only those words.
I never said he was dead.
I stared at him.
“You stood beside me at his funeral.”
“Yes.”
“You watched me bury him.”
“Yes.”
“You let me believe he was gone.”
Marco closed his eyes briefly.
“I let you survive.”
I almost laughed.
Not because it was funny.
Because it was unbelievable.
“Survive what?”
Marco looked toward the cameras.
The dead cameras.
Then toward Emma.
Then back at me.
“Survive the people who wanted you to believe you were alone.”
I stepped closer.
“Who?”
Marco didn’t answer immediately.
That scared me more than anything.
Because Marco was never afraid of names.
He was afraid of what those names could do.
Finally, he whispered:
“Your father knew Adriano was alive.”
My chest tightened.
“My father?”
Marco nodded slowly.
“Your father knew.”
The room felt smaller.
“My father lied to me?”
“He protected you.”
“No.”
My voice became harder.
“He controlled me.”
Marco looked away.
“You don’t understand.”
“I understand perfectly.”
I looked at the paper.
“At some point, everyone decides what truth I can handle.”
Marco’s face changed.
Because he knew I was right.
My entire life had been built on secrets.
Secrets from enemies.
Secrets from allies.
Secrets from family.
And now I was discovering the person who knew the most had been standing beside me the entire time.
I walked toward Enzo.
The real driver was barely conscious.
I crouched beside him.
“Who did this?”
His eyes opened slightly.
He tried to speak.
I leaned closer.
“Enzo.”
His lips moved.
At first, I heard nothing.
Then one word.
A name.
My blood froze.
Because it wasn’t Marco.
It wasn’t the fake driver.
It wasn’t Adriano.
It was someone I trusted even more.
Enzo grabbed my sleeve with the last of his strength.
And whispered:
“Boss… the person who opened the garage door…”
His fingers tightened.
“Was already inside the house.”
Then the lights above us suddenly turned off.
May you like
The entire garage went black.
And somewhere in the darkness, a phone began to ring.
