Chapter 3 - The Secret Hidden in the Walls
The sound of the door slamming echoed through the mansion.
For a moment, nobody moved.
My mother looked toward the hallway.
I had spent my entire life inside that house.
I knew every room.
Every staircase.
Every hidden passage my father used when he wanted privacy.
And I knew that sound.
Someone had entered without permission.
Someone who wanted to be heard.
“Stay behind me,” my mother said.
I almost laughed.
Not because it was funny.
Because it was impossible.
I was no longer a child.
I had spent years protecting our family name.
I had handled threats my father never wanted the public to know about.
But when my mother stepped forward, I saw something in her eyes.
Fear.
Not for herself.
For me.
And that scared me more than anything.
We walked toward the hallway together.
The mansion staff had already disappeared.
They knew better than to stay near family matters.
When we reached the entrance, I saw him.
My father.
Alessandro Moretti.
Standing beneath the chandelier.
Older than the man in my memories.
But still carrying the same dangerous presence.
His black coat was still wet from the rain outside.
His expression was unreadable.
But his eyes immediately went to the phone in my mother’s hand.
“You opened it,” he said.
My mother’s face hardened.
“You knew.”
My father didn’t answer.
That was enough.
I looked between them.
“You knew Sofia was alive?”
Silence.
A terrible, heavy silence.
My father slowly removed his gloves.
“I knew there was a possibility.”
My anger exploded.
“A possibility?”
I stepped toward him.
“You let me grow up believing I never had a sister.”
His jaw tightened.
“You don’t understand what happened.”
“No.”
My voice became colder.
“I understand perfectly.”
I pointed at the photograph still in my mother’s hand.
“You erased a child from this family.”
My father looked at the picture.
For the first time, I saw pain on his face.
Real pain.
Not the controlled expression he showed enemies.
Not the emotionless mask he wore during negotiations.
Pain.
“Sofia was not supposed to disappear.”
My mother looked at him.
“Then tell him the truth.”
My father stared at her.
Neither of them spoke.
And in that moment, I realized something.
My entire family had been protecting a secret.
Not from outsiders.
From me.
“Twenty years,” I whispered.
My father looked away.
“Twenty years of lies.”
“I was trying to keep you alive.”
The words stopped me.
“What?”
My father stepped closer.
“There were people who wanted Sofia gone because she was my weakness.”
I laughed bitterly.
“And you thought hiding her was the answer?”
“No.”
His voice became quieter.
“I thought making the world believe she was dead was the only way she could survive.”
My mother closed her eyes.
Like she had heard those words too many times.
“But you never found her,” I said.
My father looked at the photograph.
“No.”
“Until now.”
His eyes moved toward the hallway.
Toward the direction Lena had gone.
That confirmed it.
He knew.
“You knew about Lena.”
My father didn’t deny it.
“How long?”
“A few weeks.”
My hands tightened.
“You watched her work here?”
“Yes.”
“You knew she was Sofia?”
“I suspected.”
My anger returned.
“You let her clean this house while you knew she might be your daughter?”
My father’s expression changed.
“I needed proof.”
My mother interrupted.
“You needed control.”
The two of them looked at each other.
And suddenly I understood.
This wasn’t just about Sofia.
This was about everything my family had built their lives around.
Secrets.
Power.
Control.
My father reached into his coat.
He pulled out a small envelope.
“I found this three weeks ago.”
He handed it to me.
Inside was an old document.
A birth record.
A photograph.
And a letter.
My hands shook as I unfolded it.
The handwriting was small.
Careful.
The first line made my heart stop.
Dear Sofia,
I looked at my father.
“This is from you.”
He nodded.
“I wrote it the night she disappeared.”
I continued reading.
The letter was not a goodbye.
It was a promise.
A promise that he would find her.
A promise that he would protect her.
But at the bottom of the page was something I didn’t understand.
A name.
A name written over and over.
Marco Bellini.
I looked up.
“Who is Marco Bellini?”
My father’s face changed instantly.
My mother noticed.
“Alessandro.”
But he was already too late.
I had seen it.
Fear.
A real fear.
“He was your father’s closest advisor,” my mother said.
“Was?”
My father remained silent.
I looked at him.
“What happened to him?”
Nobody answered.
That was becoming a pattern.
I hated it.
“Tell me.”
My father walked toward the fireplace.
“Marco was the person who discovered Sofia had survived.”
My stomach dropped.
“And?”
“He disappeared.”
“When?”
“Two days after this letter was written.”
The room became colder.
I looked back at the photograph of Lena.
A young woman who had spent two years washing clothes in our mansion.
A woman who might have been my sister.
A woman who might have spent her entire life running from people who wanted her erased.
Then I remembered something.
Something small.
Something I had ignored.
A scar.
On Lena’s wrist.
A thin mark she always covered with her sleeve.
I had seen it months ago.
I never asked.
Because I never thought it mattered.
“Where is Lena now?”
My mother immediately looked toward the staircase.
“She went to the staff quarters.”
I didn’t wait.
I walked away.
“Where are you going?” my father asked.
“To talk to my sister.”
Neither of them stopped me.
Maybe because they knew I had already made my decision.
The staff area was on the lower floor.
A place my family rarely visited.
The contrast was obvious.
The upper floors belonged to the Moretti name.
The lower floors belonged to the people who kept that name alive.
I reached Lena’s door.
I knocked.
No answer.
“Lena.”
Nothing.
I knocked again.
Still nothing.
A strange feeling moved through me.
The same feeling I had learned to trust in dangerous situations.
Something was wrong.
I tried the handle.
The door opened.
Inside, the room was empty.
The folded towels were gone.
Her small bag was gone.
But something remained on the table.
A photograph.
I picked it up.
It was old.
It showed a little girl standing beside my father.
The same girl from my mother’s photograph.
But this one was different.
Because someone had written on the back.
My fingers turned the picture over.
Three words.
Three words that made my blood run cold.
“She knows everything.”
I heard a noise behind me.
A slow step.
Then another.
May you like
I turned around.
Someone was standing in the doorway.
