Chapter 2 - The Secret Behind My Mother’s Name
I couldn’t move.
For a few seconds, I forgot how to breathe.
Lorenzo Moretti stood across from me in the kitchen, staring at the photograph in my hand as if it had dragged him twenty years into the past.
“Your mother was supposed to be dead.”
His words didn’t make sense.
Not at first.
My fingers tightened around the old photograph.
“What did you just say?”
Lorenzo didn’t answer immediately.
That scared me more than the words themselves.
A man like him was never speechless.
He always had an answer.
A plan.
A way out.
But now he looked like someone who had just opened a door he had spent years trying to keep locked.
“Camila,” he said quietly. “Where did you get that?”
I looked at the envelope on the counter.
“It was here when I came back.”
His eyes moved toward it.
Then back to me.
“Who else saw it?”
I frowned.
“Why does that matter?”
“Because I asked you a question.”
His voice became sharper.
The old Lorenzo returned for a second.
The man everyone feared.
But I didn’t step back.
Not this time.
“I’m not one of your employees you can order around.”
The silence that followed was immediate.
The guards outside the kitchen doorway shifted slightly.
Nobody spoke to Lorenzo that way.
Nobody.
But he didn’t get angry.
Instead, he looked away.
Almost like he realized I was right.
“You’re different from what I expected.”
I laughed softly, without humor.
“I don’t even know what that means.”
“It means you should have left the moment you realized this place wasn’t normal.”
I looked at him.
“And yet you hired me.”
That stopped him.
For the first time, I saw something hidden behind his cold expression.
Regret.
I placed the photograph on the counter.
“Who was the man beside my mother?”
Lorenzo didn’t answer.
“Who was he?”
Still nothing.
I stepped closer.
“Lorenzo.”
His eyes lifted.
And hearing his own name from my mouth seemed to affect him more than it should have.
Finally, he walked toward the counter.
Slowly.
Carefully.
Like approaching something dangerous.
He picked up the photograph.
His fingers brushed the faded edges.
“That man was my brother.”
My heart stopped.
I stared at him.
“Your brother?”
Lorenzo nodded.
“Matteo Moretti.”
I searched my memory.
The name meant nothing.
But the way Lorenzo said it told me everything.
This wasn’t a simple family story.
This was a wound.
“What happened to him?”
Lorenzo looked at the photograph again.
“He disappeared.”
“When?”
“Twenty-three years ago.”
The number hit me.
My mother’s age.
My childhood.
Everything suddenly felt connected.
“But why is my mother in this picture?”
Lorenzo didn’t answer.
That was the moment I realized something.
He wasn’t hiding information because he didn’t know.
He was hiding it because he did.
“You knew her.”
The accusation came out before I could stop it.
Lorenzo’s jaw tightened.
“Yes.”
The honesty surprised me.
“You knew my mother?”
“Yes.”
“How?”
He placed the photograph down.
“Your mother worked for my family.”
I felt my stomach twist.
“My mother was a maid?”
“No.”
His answer came instantly.
“She was someone my brother trusted.”
I looked at the picture again.
My mother’s smile was different.
I had seen thousands of photos of her growing up.
But this one was different.
She looked happy.
Free.
Like she was a person before life took pieces of her away.
“What happened to her?”
Lorenzo became quiet.
The question seemed harder than any other.
“Your mother discovered something she wasn’t supposed to know.”
“What?”
He looked at me.
“A secret involving my family.”
The kitchen suddenly felt colder.
I crossed my arms.
“You expect me to believe that?”
“No.”
The answer surprised me.
“I expect you to be angry.”
I stared at him.
“Why?”
“Because I would be.”
That was the first time Lorenzo sounded human.
Not powerful.
Not dangerous.
Just tired.
I wanted to ask more.
I wanted answers.
But before I could, the sound of footsteps echoed through the hallway.
One of Lorenzo’s men appeared at the entrance.
“Boss.”
Lorenzo immediately changed.
The softness disappeared.
“What?”
The man glanced at me.
Then lowered his voice.
“We found out who left the envelope.”
Lorenzo’s expression darkened.
“Who?”
The guard hesitated.
That hesitation told me it was bad.
“Someone from inside the estate.”
Lorenzo’s eyes narrowed.
“Name.”
The man looked uncomfortable.
Then he said:
“It was signed by Elena.”
Lorenzo froze.
I noticed it immediately.
Not anger.
Not surprise.
Fear.
A real fear.
“Who is Elena?” I asked.
Neither of them answered.
That bothered me.
“Lorenzo.”
He looked at me.
“Go upstairs.”
I almost laughed.
“Excuse me?”
“Camila.”
His voice was serious now.
“Go upstairs. Lock your door. Do not open it for anyone.”
The way he said it made my heart race.
“What is happening?”
But Lorenzo was already walking away.
“Please.”
That one word stopped me.
Because Lorenzo Moretti didn’t say please.
Not to anyone.
I watched him disappear into the hallway with his guards.
For the first time since I arrived at the estate, I wasn’t wondering if Lorenzo Moretti was dangerous.
I was wondering what he was protecting me from.
I went to my room.
I locked the door.
But I didn’t sleep.
The photograph sat on my nightstand.
My mother’s face stared back at me.
A woman who had spent my entire life telling me we had no secrets.
A woman who had cried every time someone mentioned my father.
A woman who had died five years ago without ever telling me she knew the Moretti family.
Around two in the morning, my phone vibrated.
Unknown number.
One message.
I almost ignored it.
Almost.
But then I saw the picture attached.
It was my mother.
Alive.
Standing outside the Moretti estate.
And beside her was Lorenzo.
But the date on the photograph was impossible.
It was taken three years after my mother’s supposed death.
My hands started shaking.
Another message appeared.
“You were never supposed to meet him.”
I stared at the screen.
Then another message arrived.
“You were never supposed to learn who your father was.”
My heart pounded.
I typed back.
“Who are you?”
The reply came immediately.
One word.
A name.
A name I had heard only once before.
Matteo.
I dropped the phone onto the bed.
Because Matteo Moretti wasn’t supposed to be alive.
I stood there frozen, staring at the screen.
Then someone knocked on my door.
Three slow knocks.
I didn’t answer.
Another knock.
Harder.
“Camila.”
It was Lorenzo’s voice.
Relief rushed through me.
I stepped toward the door.
Then my phone vibrated again.
A final message appeared.
“Don’t open it.”
I stopped.
Because the message was followed by a photograph.
A photograph taken from inside my room.
Showing me standing in front of the door.
And behind me, reflected in the mirror, was someone else.
I slowly turned around.
The room was empty.
May you like
Then the bedroom door handle moved.
And someone on the other side whispered my mother’s name.
