Chapter 2 - The Notebook My Father Left Behind
The next morning, I found my brother standing in my father’s old office, holding a notebook that should have been buried with the past.
Luca Moretti looked at me and smiled.
But the smile disappeared when I asked:
"Why was Isabella meeting the man who had this?"
He didn’t answer.
Because the notebook in his hands had my father’s name written on the cover.
And I knew my brother had been hiding it from me.
I had spent my entire life believing that the greatest danger to a Moretti was the enemy standing outside the walls.
I was wrong.
The greatest danger was the person who already had the key.
I barely slept that night.
Not because I was afraid.
Fear was something I understood.
Fear was simple.
It told you when to fight.
It told you when to run.
What kept me awake was something much worse.
Doubt.
The photograph from the unknown number remained open on my phone.
Luca.
Isabella.
The mysterious man.
And the notebook.
My father's notebook.
A small black leather journal he carried everywhere during the final years of his life.
I remembered it clearly.
My father never went anywhere without it.
Every meeting.
Every negotiation.
Every private conversation.
He wrote everything down.
Names.
Numbers.
Promises.
Betrayals.
When I was younger, I once asked him why he trusted a notebook more than people.
He looked at me and said:
"Because paper doesn't pretend to love you."
At the time, I thought it was just another lesson from a difficult man.
Now I wondered if he had been warning me.
I arrived at my father's old office before sunrise.
The room had remained untouched since his death.
The same wooden desk.
The same shelves.
The same painting behind the chair.
Everyone believed I kept it as a memory.
That was only partly true.
The real reason was simple.
My father had left behind secrets.
And secrets had a way of becoming weapons.
I searched the room carefully.
Not because I expected to find the notebook.
Because I needed to know what someone had already taken.
The drawer where my father kept his personal records was locked.
Still locked.
The safe behind the painting was untouched.
Still untouched.
Whoever had searched my study last night wasn't looking for random information.
They were looking for something specific.
Something they knew existed.
My phone rang.
I looked at the screen.
Luca.
For a moment, I considered ignoring him.
Then I answered.
"Where are you?"
His voice was calm.
Too calm.
"At home."
"Which home?"
Silence.
A small pause.
The kind of pause only someone hiding something made.
"My office."
I looked toward the window.
"Luca."
"Yes?"
"Come to father's office."
Another silence.
Then:
"Why?"
Because I wanted to see his face when I asked about the notebook.
Because I wanted to know if my brother was a liar.
Because I needed to know if the person standing beside me my entire life was the person holding the knife.
But I only said:
"Just come."
Twenty minutes later, Luca walked through the door.
He wore a dark suit.
Perfectly arranged.
Perfectly controlled.
Like always.
People often said Luca was the softer Moretti brother.
They were wrong.
I was fire.
Luca was ice.
Fire showed you when it was dangerous.
Ice waited until you stepped too far.
He looked around the room.
Then at me.
"You look like you haven't slept."
"I haven't."
"Why?"
I placed my phone on the desk.
The photo was still visible.
His expression changed.
Only slightly.
But I saw it.
He recognized the image.
That was enough.
"You know him."
Luca didn't answer.
I stood.
"Who is he?"
"Alessandro—"
"Don't."
My voice was quiet.
That made him stop.
"I am not asking as your brother."
The room became colder.
"I am asking as the head of this family."
Luca looked away.
That was the first time in years I saw him avoid my eyes.
"You shouldn't have seen that."
Those words bothered me more than a confession.
Because he wasn't denying it.
"You knew Isabella was meeting him."
Luca remained silent.
"How long?"
Still nothing.
I walked closer.
"How long, Luca?"
"Three months."
Three months.
The number hit harder than I expected.
Three months of secrets.
Three months of meetings.
Three months of my fiancée and my brother knowing something I didn't.
I turned away.
The anger came.
Fast.
Hot.
But I controlled it.
"What was in the notebook?"
Luca froze.
There it was.
The reaction.
The one I was waiting for.
"What notebook?"
I smiled.
Not because it was funny.
Because now I knew.
"You just answered my question."
His face hardened.
"Who told you about it?"
"The same person who sent me this."
I showed him the message.
Ask your brother about the notebook.
Luca read it.
His expression changed from surprise to concern.
Not fear.
Concern.
That confused me.
"You need to forget about this."
I stared at him.
"Excuse me?"
"You heard me."
"No."
My voice became colder.
"I didn't spend my life building this family just to be told what I can and cannot know."
Luca stepped closer.
"Alessandro, listen to me."
"Why?"
"Because father died protecting that notebook."
The room went silent.
I had heard many things about my father's death.
Business problems.
Enemies.
A failed negotiation.
But never that.
"What did you say?"
Luca looked at the desk.
"He knew someone close to him was going to betray him."
My heart slowed.
"Who?"
He didn't answer.
Instead, he walked toward the bookshelf.
Behind several old books was a hidden compartment.
I watched him open it.
Inside was an empty space.
Too empty.
"The notebook was here."
My eyes narrowed.
"When did you take it?"
"I didn't."
"Luca."
"I swear."
I studied him.
For years, I had learned how to read people.
A nervous person moved differently.
A liar looked for escape routes.
A guilty person prepared excuses.
Luca didn't look guilty.
He looked afraid.
Not for himself.
For me.
"Where is it?"
He looked at me.
"I don't know."
A strange answer.
A dangerous answer.
"You expect me to believe someone stole something from your hiding place?"
"No."
He shook his head.
"I think someone wanted me to think I had it."
Before I could respond, my phone vibrated.
A new message.
Unknown number.
One sentence.
"Your brother is telling the truth."
I showed Luca.
His face changed.
Another message arrived.
This time, there was a photo.
Not of Luca.
Not of Isabella.
Not of the mysterious man.
It was a photo of my father.
Taken the night before he died.
I stared at the image.
Something was wrong.
Very wrong.
Because standing beside my father in the photograph was someone I recognized.
Someone who should never have been there.
Someone who had been dead for twelve years.
Luca whispered:
"That's impossible."
I looked closer.
Then I noticed something in my father's hand.
A piece of paper.
A note.
And on it were three words.
My name.
And a warning.
I turned toward Luca.
"Who sent this?"
He didn't answer.
Because his phone began ringing.
The screen showed a name.
A name neither of us had heard in twelve years.
Luca slowly picked it up.
May you like
And the voice on the other end said only one sentence.
"Tell Alessandro the truth about what happened to his father."
