Chapter 3 - The Man in the Photograph
The man in Rosa’s photograph was not Carlo.
That frightened Vittorio more.
It was Dr. Samuel Kent.
His personal physician.
The same doctor who had examined him six times during the past four months.
The same man who had assured him his insomnia came from stress.
The same man who had prescribed stronger medication when Vittorio began complaining of panic whenever he entered his bedroom.
“He knew,” Elena said.
Vittorio stared at the photograph.
“He did more than know.”
Rosa wiped her face.
“I’m sorry.”
“When did he approach you?” Marco asked.
“Five months ago.”
“Why you?”
“He said Mr. Moretti needed special equipment installed discreetly.”
“Why didn’t you ask Vittorio?”
Rosa looked ashamed.
“He showed me paperwork.”
“Signed by whom?”
“Mr. Moretti.”
Vittorio laughed without humor.
“I signed nothing.”
Rosa continued.
“He said it was part of a private sleep study. He gave me ten thousand dollars.”
Marco’s expression hardened.
“You took it.”
“My daughter needed surgery.”
That silenced the room.
Elena looked at Rosa differently.
Desperation made people easy to control.
She understood that.
“Then what?” Vittorio asked.
“I let him in through the service corridor.”
“How many times?”
“Three.”
“Was he alone?”
“The first time.”
“And afterward?”
Rosa’s eyes filled again.
“A second man came.”
“Who?”
“I never saw his face.”
Marco asked what he wore.
Dark coat.
Gloves.
Baseball cap.
Ordinary.
Deliberately ordinary.
“And then you quit?” Elena asked.
Rosa nodded.
“I started hearing things.”
“What things?”
Rosa hesitated.
“Dr. Kent said the frequency needed adjustment because Mr. Moretti was adapting.”
Vittorio’s jaw tightened.
“He said that?”
“Yes.”
“That was when you understood.”
“I knew it wasn’t treatment.”
Rosa tried to resign.
Two days later, a man followed her daughter home from school.
No threat had been spoken.
None was necessary.
Rosa left the city.
“Why didn’t you call me?” Vittorio asked.
She looked at him as though the answer was obvious.
“Because everyone was afraid of you.”
The words landed differently than Elena expected.
Vittorio looked away.
Rosa continued.
“I thought maybe you knew.”
“Knew they were poisoning my sleep?”
“You are Vittorio Moretti.”
He absorbed that quietly.
His reputation had protected him from enemies.
It had also prevented people from warning him.
Marco’s phone rang.
Kent’s office was empty.
His house too.
His vehicle had been found at the airport.
No record of him boarding a flight.
“He knew we found the devices,” Marco said.
“Or somebody warned him,” Elena replied.
Everyone looked at her.
She wished she could stop talking.
Apparently she could not.
“If the photograph from your bedroom was taken immediately after I cut the headboard, whoever sent it had live access to the house.”
Marco nodded slowly.
“So someone saw us discover the equipment.”
“And called Kent.”
Vittorio stared at the photograph.
“Which means our leak is still inside.”
Back at the mansion, lockdown intensified.
Vittorio ordered all surveillance networks isolated.
No staff communication outside.
Elena returned to her new room.
She locked the door.
Then checked under the bed.
She hated herself for doing it.
At six that evening, somebody knocked.
She nearly screamed.
“Elena?”
Vittorio.
She opened the door.
He looked exhausted again.
Worse than earlier.
“You should sleep.”
“I came for conversation, not medical advice.”
“Those are expensive elsewhere.”
He stepped inside.
Her staff apartment was small compared with the mansion.
Vittorio looked strangely oversized inside it.
“Elena.”
“Yes?”
“Why did you take this job?”
“Money.”
“Everybody says money.”
“Because it’s usually true.”
“How much debt?”
Her face tightened.
“That’s personal.”
“So was my bedroom.”
“You asked me to cut it open metaphorically.”
“I absolutely did not.”
She smiled despite herself.
He noticed.
Then his expression softened.
“My office investigated you.”
Elena’s smile disappeared.
“Of course it did.”
“Your mother’s hospital bills.”
“Don’t.”
“Two hundred and twelve thousand dollars.”
“I said don’t.”
Vittorio stopped.
Elena looked toward the window.
“She died anyway.”
“I know.”
Her eyes burned.
“She worked thirty-four years. Never missed taxes. Never asked anyone for anything. Then she got sick and suddenly every month cost more than she made in a year.”
Vittorio said nothing.
“I took every job I could.”
She laughed bitterly.
“I’m apparently excellent at destroying luxury furniture.”
“You saved my life.”
“We don’t know that.”
“I know.”
The certainty in his voice surprised her.
He placed an envelope on the table.
“No.”
“You don’t know what it is.”
“If it’s money, no.”
“It’s repayment.”
“For what?”
“For noticing.”
“I was doing my job.”
“Then consider it a bonus.”
She pushed the envelope back.
“You don’t get to solve everything with money.”
Vittorio stared.
People probably did not speak to him like that.
“That seems inconvenient.”
“It is.”
He almost smiled again.
Then the lights flickered.
Both froze.
Once.
Twice.
Darkness.
Vittorio’s breathing changed instantly.
Fast.
Shallow.
Elena remembered.
Four months of conditioning.
Bedroom.
Darkness.
Vibrations.
Fear.
“It’s okay,” she said.
He backed toward the wall.
“Don’t.”
“I’m not touching you.”
His hands shook.
“Vittorio, listen to my voice.”
“I said—”
“Name five things you can see.”
He looked angry.
“Now.”
Something about her tone broke through.
“The window.”
“Good.”
“Desk.”
“Three more.”
“Lamp.”
“Door.”
“Your ridiculous apron.”
She looked down.
“It’s standard issue.”
His breathing slowed.
Emergency lights came on.
He looked embarrassed.
Elena did not mention it.
The mansion alarm sounded.
Marco appeared moments later.
“Power line was cut.”
“Outside?” Vittorio asked.
“No.”
Marco looked toward Elena.
“Inside.”
They found the damaged connection in the basement electrical room.
No cameras covered the exact corner.
But somebody had left something behind.
A key.
Old brass.
Number stamped into it.
Elena recognized the format.
“Service locker.”
Marco looked at her.
“How?”
“I was given one.”
They went downstairs to the employee lockers.
Number 317 had not been assigned for years.
Marco opened it.
Inside sat a cardboard box.
A photograph lay on top.
Vittorio removed it.
A younger version of him stood beside his father.
Between them was Carlo.
Behind the photograph was a handwritten sentence.
THE WRONG SON INHERITED EVERYTHING.
Vittorio went still.
Elena looked at him.
“Your father had another son?”
“No.”
Marco’s face changed.
“Sir.”
“What?”
“There was a rumor.”
Vittorio turned.
“What rumor?”
“Before your father married your mother.”
Vittorio’s expression became dangerous.
“You knew this?”
“I heard it years ago.”
“Talk.”
Marco reluctantly explained.
Vittorio’s father had supposedly fathered another child.
The family buried the story.
Money changed hands.
The mother disappeared.
No confirmed identity.
Vittorio stared at the photograph.
“Why has nobody told me?”
“Because your father ordered silence.”
Elena studied the handwriting.
The ink looked fresh.
“This was placed recently.”
Marco nodded.
Then his phone rang.
He answered.
His expression tightened immediately.
“When?”
He listened.
“Don’t touch anything.”
Vittorio stepped closer.
“What happened?”
Marco ended the call.
“Carlo is gone.”
Vittorio’s eyes narrowed.
“Gone where?”
“His driver was found unconscious in the garage.”
“Carlo?”
“Missing.”
Elena felt cold.
Then Marco added something worse.
“There’s blood inside the car.”
Vittorio moved toward the door.
His phone vibrated.
Unknown number.
He opened the message.
A photograph filled the screen.
Carlo sat tied to a chair.
His face bruised.
Behind him stood Dr. Kent.
May you like
And beneath the photograph was a single line:
BRING ELENA MARLOWE IF YOU WANT YOUR COUSIN ALIVE.
