Chapter 3 - The West Wing Door
“Elena, stay here.”
Marco’s order came instantly.
She ignored him.
“Teresa is in there.”
“So is whoever took her.”
“She has been kind to me since the day I arrived.”
“That doesn’t make you bulletproof.”
“I’m not asking you to send me alone.”
Marco stared at her.
Despite soaked clothes, wet hair and bruising beginning along one arm, Elena did not look frightened anymore.
She looked furious.
Marco recognized that kind of anger.
It was the kind that made people careless.
It was also the kind that kept people moving when fear should have stopped them.
“Dante,” he said.
“Teams are covering both exits.”
“Cameras?”
“The west wing system went dark four minutes ago.”
“Of course it did.”
Marco turned to Carlo.
“You know the old passages?”
“Some.”
“Show Dante.”
Carlo hesitated.
“Marco—”
“Now.”
While Dante organized the search, Marco pulled Elena aside.
“You’re going upstairs.”
“No.”
“That wasn’t a request.”
“You think Teresa was taken because of you?”
“I think she was taken because of me.”
“And?”
“And I’m not hiding in a bedroom while someone threatens her.”
Marco’s jaw tightened.
“You were almost drowned twenty minutes ago.”
“Pushed.”
“What?”
“I wasn’t almost drowned. I was pushed. There’s a difference.”
“How?”
“One sounds like an accident.”
Marco stared at her.
Even now, she refused to let Isabella’s act be softened into something less ugly.
He respected that.
He hated that he respected it.
Because respect was becoming something else.
Something he did not have time to name.
“Elena.”
“Mr. Moretti.”
“Marco.”
She blinked.
He had never asked her to use his first name.
Not like this.
“Marco,” she corrected quietly.
“Stay behind me.”
Her expression changed.
“Fine.”
It was not obedience.
It was negotiation.
For the moment, he accepted it.
Dante returned.
“Carlo says there’s a service corridor behind the west library.”
“Entrances?”
“One through the old wine room, one through a maintenance closet.”
“Take four men.”
“Already moving.”
Marco looked at Isabella.
She sat under guard near the drawing room doors.
Her red dress, flawless an hour earlier, was wrinkled where Dante had restrained her.
Her makeup remained perfect.
Her eyes did not.
“Take her downstairs,” Marco said.
Isabella laughed.
“You’re going to rescue the maid?”
Marco ignored her.
“She’ll get you killed.”
That made Elena turn.
Isabella looked directly at her.
“You think this ends with evidence and police and some touching little justice speech?”
“Elena,” Marco warned.
But Elena walked closer.
“What does it end with?”
Isabella smiled.
“You finding out why your mother spent fourteen years trying to keep you away from this family.”
Elena froze.
Marco turned.
“What does that mean?”
Isabella leaned back.
“Ask Carlo.”
Carlo’s face hardened.
“She’s trying to divide you.”
“Then answer.”
Carlo remained silent.
Elena felt the room tighten around her.
“My mother never wanted me here?”
Carlo finally spoke.
“She wanted you safe.”
“That isn’t what I asked.”
“She believed Villa Moretti was dangerous.”
“So why did I receive a recommendation letter bringing me here after she died?”
Carlo looked at Isabella.
“Because Lucia didn’t send it.”
Elena’s stomach dropped.
“Who did?”
Isabella smiled.
Marco stepped between them.
“Enough.”
“Why?” Isabella asked. “Afraid she’ll learn your family didn’t save her mother?”
Marco’s voice went cold.
“Take her downstairs.”
As guards moved Isabella away, she called over her shoulder.
“Elena!”
Elena looked.
“You should ask why Marco’s mother put your name in her will.”
The guards turned the corner with her.
Elena stared after them.
Marco looked at Carlo.
“Did Sofia put Elena in her will?”
Carlo rubbed a hand across his face.
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know.”
“You seem to know a lot when it’s convenient.”
“I was trying to keep both of you alive.”
“You’ve done an excellent job.”
Carlo absorbed the insult.
“We don’t have time.”
“No,” Marco said. “We don’t.”
They followed the pearl trail.
Teresa always wore the same necklace.
A gift from her late husband.
Elena had seen her touch it whenever she was nervous.
One pearl lay beside the library doors.
Another rested near the wall.
Marco crouched.
A faint smear of blood marked the molding.
Elena’s breath caught.
“That could be hers.”
Marco stood.
“Stay behind me.”
He pushed open the library door.
Empty.
The west wing of Villa Moretti had been largely unused since Marco’s father died.
Old furniture sat beneath white dust covers.
Family portraits stared from dark walls.
The air smelled of wood, paper and age.
Marco hated the wing.
His father had conducted private meetings there.
As a child, Marco had learned never to enter without permission.
Now every childhood rule felt like an invitation.
They crossed the library.
Another pearl.
Then another.
The trail ended before a tall portrait of Vittorio Moretti.
Marco stared at it.
“My father loved secret doors.”
Elena glanced at him.
“You’re joking.”
“No.”
He pressed the carved frame.
Nothing.
Carlo approached.
“Lower left corner.”
Marco pressed again.
A soft click.
The entire portrait moved away from the wall.
Behind it was a narrow passage.
Elena looked into the darkness.
“Of course.”
Marco almost smiled.
“You’re handling this surprisingly well.”
“I’ve been pushed into a lake, discovered my mother was involved in a decades-old financial conspiracy, met a dead accountant and learned your fiancée may know how my mother died.”
“Former fiancée.”
“That part is important to you?”
“Very.”
Despite everything, Elena let out a short, disbelieving breath that was almost a laugh.
Then a faint sound came from inside the passage.
A woman moaning.
“Teresa.”
Elena moved.
Marco caught her wrist.
“Slow.”
They entered.
The corridor was barely wide enough for two people.
Old electrical lights flickered overhead.
Marco moved first.
Carlo behind Elena.
Twenty feet ahead, they found Teresa sitting against the wall.
Her hands were tied.
A cloth covered her mouth.
Elena rushed to her.
“Teresa!”
Marco checked the corridor while Elena pulled away the gag.
Teresa gasped.
“He went that way.”
“Who?”
“Salvatore.”
Carlo’s face tightened.
“Did he hurt you?”
“Only enough to make me cooperate.”
A bruise darkened her cheek.
Elena’s anger returned.
“What did he want?”
Teresa looked at her.
“You.”
“Why?”
Teresa began crying.
“I’m sorry.”
“For what?”
“I should have told you.”
Elena crouched.
“Told me what?”
Teresa looked at Marco.
Then back to Elena.
“Lucia was my sister.”
Elena stared.
The corridor seemed to vanish.
“What?”
“My younger sister.”
“No.”
“I changed my last name when I married.”
“No.”
“Elena—”
“My mother told me she had no family.”
“She was trying to keep you safe.”
Elena stood.
“Everyone keeps saying that.”
Teresa flinched.
“Because it was true.”
“Then why did she let me grow up believing I had nobody?”
“She didn’t know who she could trust.”
“You?”
Teresa’s tears fell.
“Especially me.”
Marco watched silently.
This was not his grief to interrupt.
Elena’s voice shook.
“You worked beside me every day.”
“Yes.”
“You watched me talk about my mother.”
“Yes.”
“You knew I was your niece.”
“Yes.”
“And you said nothing.”
Teresa lowered her eyes.
“I promised her.”
Elena stepped backward.
Marco caught her elbow.
She pulled away.
“I’m fine.”
She wasn’t.
But Marco let her stand alone.
Teresa wiped her face.
“Lucia believed Salvatore would look for you if he knew who you were.”
“Who am I?”
Teresa looked terrified.
“That is what he came here to stop you from learning.”
Footsteps sounded farther down the passage.
Marco turned.
“Dante?”
No answer.
Carlo moved beside him.
“Could be Salvatore.”
Marco looked at Elena.
“Take Teresa back.”
Elena shook her head.
Marco’s expression ended the argument.
“This isn’t about hiding you. Teresa can barely stand.”
Elena looked at her aunt.
The word still felt impossible.
“Come on.”
She helped Teresa up.
Marco and Carlo continued forward.
After three steps, Teresa grabbed Elena’s arm.
“Wait.”
“What?”
“There’s something you need first.”
She reached beneath the collar of her dress.
A tiny brass key hung from a chain.
“Lucia gave this to me the night Sofia died.”
Elena took it.
“What does it open?”
Teresa whispered.
“Your mother’s room.”
“My mother didn’t have a room here.”
“Yes.”
“Where?”
Teresa looked toward the dark passage behind them.
“Under the chapel.”
Elena stared.
“Why would my mother have a room under the chapel?”
Teresa’s voice dropped.
“Because Sofia built it for her.”
A gunshot echoed through the passage.
Elena ducked instinctively.
Teresa screamed.
“Marco!”
Elena ran before anyone could stop her.
She turned the corner.
Marco was standing behind a stone pillar.
Carlo crouched beside him.
Across the corridor, a man disappeared through a steel door.
“Salvatore!” Carlo shouted.
Marco looked at Elena.
“I told you—”
“I heard the shot.”
“Stay down.”
“Was anyone hit?”
“No.”
Another shot struck the wall.
Dust exploded.
Marco pulled Elena behind the pillar.
Carlo pointed.
“There’s another exit beyond that door.”
“To where?” Marco asked.
“The chapel.”
Elena looked at the brass key in her hand.
Marco saw it.
“What’s that?”
“Apparently the worst family reunion gift in history.”
He gave her a look.
“Teresa says it opens my mother’s room.”
“Where?”
“Under the chapel.”
Carlo closed his eyes.
Marco saw.
“You knew.”
Carlo nodded.
“Take us there.”
“We have to get past Salvatore.”
Marco looked toward the steel door.
“No.”
He turned toward the wall.
“We don’t.”
He remembered another passage.
His father used to disappear from Sunday Mass halfway through services.
Marco had once followed him as a boy and been punished so badly he never tried again.
He walked six feet down the corridor and pressed a stone block.
Nothing.
Another.
Nothing.
Third.
Click.
A narrow staircase appeared.
Carlo stared.
“You knew about this?”
“My father taught me something useful after all.”
They climbed.
The staircase ended behind the altar of the family chapel.
Marco pushed open a hidden panel.
Sunlight streamed through stained glass.
The chapel was empty.
Elena entered behind him.
“So where’s the room?”
Teresa had followed slowly with a security guard.
She pointed beneath the altar.
“There.”
Marco moved a rug.
An iron ring was embedded in the stone floor.
He pulled.
A square hatch opened.
Cold air rose from below.
Elena stared.
“Wonderful. Another secret tunnel.”
Marco descended first.
At the bottom stood a wooden door.
Elena used the brass key.
It turned.
The room beyond was small.
A bed.
A writing desk.
Shelves.
Boxes.
Everything untouched.
Dust lay thick over most surfaces.
But one area was clean.
Someone had been there recently.
Elena approached the desk.
A photograph sat face down.
She turned it over.
Lucia.
Sofia.
And two little children.
Marco as a boy.
And a baby girl in Lucia’s arms.
Elena.
She touched the photograph.
On the back, Lucia had written:
Our children deserve better than our secrets.
Elena’s eyes filled.
Marco stood beside her.
“My mother knew you since you were a baby.”
Elena nodded.
She opened the top desk drawer.
Empty.
Second drawer.
Letters.
Third drawer.
A locked metal box.
The brass key fit that too.
Inside lay a sealed envelope.
ELENA.
Her mother’s handwriting.
Her hands shook as she opened it.
Marco stepped back to give her space.
My darling Elena,
If you are reading this, then I failed to keep the past buried.
Elena swallowed.
She continued.
There is one truth Sofia and I agreed you must never learn unless both our families were in danger.
A floorboard creaked above them.
Marco looked up.
Elena kept reading.
You were not brought into the Moretti family by chance.
The light in the basement room went out.
Complete darkness.
Then a man’s voice came from the doorway.
“Elena.”
She froze.
May you like
The voice was familiar.
It belonged to the man who had signed her mother’s death certificate.
