Chapter 4 - The Letter From The Dead Wife
“Vincent, if you are seeing this, it means they already know I told you the truth…”
The words remained on the screen.
Nobody moved.
Nobody breathed.
The security room was silent except for the low sound of the monitors.
I watched Vincent Kretti stare at the message.
The most powerful man in the mansion looked like someone had just taken away the ground beneath his feet.
Because that handwriting belonged to someone who was supposed to be gone.
His wife.
Isabella.
The woman everyone told him he had lost.
The woman whose death had destroyed the only part of him that looked human.
I looked at Zara.
She was standing behind me, holding my hand tightly.
She was watching her father.
Not the screen.
Him.
Because children notice things adults ignore.
And Zara noticed that her father was afraid.
“Play the rest,” Vincent said.
The security guard hesitated.
“Sir…”
“Play it.”
The guard pressed the button.
The video continued.
The figure on the screen turned the photograph over.
The camera quality was poor.
The face remained hidden.
But the hand was visible.
A black glove.
A silver ring.
And something else.
A small scar across the wrist.
Vincent suddenly stepped closer.
“That ring.”
Everyone looked at him.
“What about it?” I asked.
His expression changed.
“My brother had that ring.”
The room went silent again.
I knew Vincent had a brother.
Everyone in the mansion knew.
Adrian Kretti.
The man who handled Kretti Holdings’ international operations.
The man who appeared beside Vincent in every newspaper photo.
The man everyone described as his most loyal family member.
“Adrian?” I whispered.
Vincent did not answer.
He walked away from the screen.
For several seconds, he simply stood there.
Then he took out his phone.
He called.
No answer.
He called again.
Still nothing.
His jaw tightened.
“Find him.”
The security team immediately moved.
I watched them leave.
Then I looked at Vincent.
“You think your brother was involved?”
His eyes turned toward me.
“I think someone inside my family helped hide the truth about my wife.”
“That is not the same thing.”
“No.”
He looked back at the screen.
“It is worse.”
I wanted to ask more.
But Zara suddenly spoke.
“Daddy?”
Vincent immediately looked at her.
The anger disappeared.
Only for a second.
But it disappeared.
“Yes?”
“Did Mommy hate you?”
The question destroyed him.
I saw it.
A small crack.
A wound no enemy could create.
“No.”
His answer came instantly.
“Your mother never hated me.”
“Then why did she say you needed to know the truth?”
Vincent looked down.
Because he did not have an answer.
And that frightened me.
A man like Vincent Kretti always had answers.
Except when the truth involved someone he loved.
I took Zara back to her room.
She was exhausted.
The fear had drained everything from her.
I helped her change into pajamas.
I made her tea.
I sat beside her bed.
For the first time since I arrived, she looked like an ordinary child.
Not the daughter of a billionaire.
Not the daughter of a feared man.
Just Zara.
A little girl who missed her mother.
“Hazel?”
“Yes?”
“Are you scared of my daddy?”
I thought about lying.
Children deserved honesty.
“Sometimes.”
She looked surprised.
“Why?”
“Because powerful people can hurt others without realizing it.”
She stared at the blanket.
“Daddy hurts people.”
The sentence was quiet.
But it carried years of observation.
I looked at her.
“What makes you say that?”
She shrugged.
“People disappear.”
My heart tightened.
“What people?”
She looked toward the window.
“The people who make Daddy angry.”
Before I could ask more, the bedroom door opened.
Vincent stood there.
I immediately stood.
He looked at Zara.
Then at me.
“Can I speak with you?”
I followed him into the hallway.
The moment the door closed, his expression changed.
“What did she tell you?”
“About people disappearing?”
His eyes hardened.
“She said that?”
“Yes.”
He looked away.
For a moment, he seemed exhausted.
Not physically.
Emotionally.
“You have been here one day, Hazel.”
“And I have already learned your daughter has been afraid every night for two years.”
“That is not my fault.”
I looked at him.
He stopped.
Because maybe he expected fear.
Maybe he expected me to apologize.
But I did not.
“You know what the problem is, Mr. Kretti?”
His eyes narrowed.
“You think protecting someone means controlling everything around them.”
His expression became colder.
“You know nothing about protecting my daughter.”
“You’re right.”
I nodded.
“I don’t know what it feels like to have millions of dollars and armed men guarding my home.”
I looked toward Zara’s room.
“But I know what it feels like when a child is scared and everyone around them is too focused on rules to notice.”
That hit him.
I saw it.
He looked down.
For a moment, he looked like a father.
Not a businessman.
Not a mafia boss.
Just a man who realized he had missed something important.
Then his phone rang.
He answered immediately.
“Speak.”
A pause.
His face changed.
“What?”
Another pause.
“Where?”
He listened.
Then his eyes moved toward me.
“No.”
His voice became dangerous.
“Do not touch anything.”
He ended the call.
“What happened?”
Vincent stared at the floor.
“The old house.”
“What old house?”
“My wife’s childhood home.”
I waited.
He continued.
“Someone broke in.”
My stomach tightened.
“Why?”
His eyes met mine.
“Because they found something Isabella left behind.”
Before I could respond, he walked away.
I followed him downstairs.
The mansion was already moving.
Security teams.
Phones ringing.
Cars starting outside.
Everyone knew something had changed.
This was no longer about a child’s nightmares.
This was about a dead woman who had left a message.
And someone who was desperate to erase it.
Twenty minutes later, Vincent’s private vehicle stopped outside a smaller estate on the edge of the city.
It was old.
Nothing like the Kretti mansion.
No guards.
No luxury.
Just memories.
“This was where Isabella grew up,” Vincent said.
His voice was quieter.
We entered.
The house was dark.
Dust covered the furniture.
But someone had been here recently.
Drawers were open.
Pictures were scattered.
Someone had searched the place.
Vincent moved through the rooms quickly.
Like he knew exactly where to go.
Then he stopped in front of a small wooden cabinet.
“My wife kept her important things here.”
He opened it.
Empty.
His expression changed.
“They took it.”
“What?”
“The journal.”
I looked at him.
“Isabella had a journal?”
“Yes.”
“About what?”
Vincent stared at the empty space.
“About everything she was afraid to tell me.”
A sound came from upstairs.
Both of us froze.
Someone was inside.
Vincent immediately pulled his weapon.
I grabbed the nearest object I could find.
He looked at me.
“You stay behind me.”
For once, I listened.
We moved upstairs.
Slowly.
The floor creaked beneath our feet.
A bedroom door at the end of the hallway was slightly open.
Vincent raised his weapon.
He reached for the handle.
Then stopped.
Because from inside the room…
A phone was ringing.
Not his.
Not mine.
A phone that should not have been there.
Vincent pushed the door open.
The room was empty.
Except for one thing.
A small old phone sitting on the bed.
The screen was glowing.
Incoming call.
The name displayed on the screen made Vincent lose all color from his face.
May you like
Because the phone was calling from a number that had been disconnected two years ago.
The number belonged to Isabella.
