Chapter 3 - The Voice From My Father’s Grave
The phone fell from Luca’s hand when the voice spoke my father’s name.
For twelve years, I had believed that voice was gone forever.
But then the stranger said:
"Alessandro, your father never trusted the people closest to him."
Luca looked at me.
And for the first time in my life, my brother looked afraid of the truth.
I stared at the phone sitting on the desk.
Neither of us moved.
The voice on the other end remained silent.
Waiting.
Like he knew silence was more powerful than words.
I reached for the phone.
Luca immediately grabbed my wrist.
"Don't."
I looked at him.
"Move."
"Alessandro."
"Move."
Something in my voice made him let go.
I picked up the phone.
"Who are you?"
A quiet breath answered.
Then:
"You already know."
"No."
"You just refuse to believe it."
My jaw tightened.
People had tried to intimidate me before.
Enemies.
Rivals.
Men who thought they could destroy the Moretti family.
But this was different.
This person knew something.
Something about my father.
Something about Luca.
Something about Isabella.
"Tell me your name."
A pause.
Then the voice said:
"My name doesn't matter."
I looked at Luca.
He was staring at the phone like it was a weapon.
"What matters," the voice continued, "is that your father died because he trusted the wrong person."
My fingers tightened around the phone.
"Who killed him?"
The line went quiet.
Too quiet.
Then:
"Ask yourself another question."
"What?"
"Who benefited when he died?"
The call ended.
I lowered the phone slowly.
For a few seconds, neither Luca nor I spoke.
Then I asked:
"You knew."
Luca looked at me.
"I knew something was wrong."
"That's not what I asked."
His expression changed.
"Alessandro..."
"You knew my father wasn't killed because of business."
Silence.
That was enough.
I walked toward the window.
The city outside was waking up.
Cars moved through the streets.
People started their normal lives.
They had no idea that inside this room, the foundation of my entire family was cracking.
"Tell me everything."
Luca sat down.
For the first time, he looked older.
Not physically.
Something else.
Like carrying a secret had taken years from him.
"After father died, I found something."
"The notebook."
He nodded.
"I found it hidden in the estate."
"Where?"
"Inside the old chapel."
I turned.
"The chapel?"
"Our father had a room there nobody knew about."
I stared at him.
"Nobody?"
He looked at me.
"Not even you."
That hurt more than I expected.
My father had always treated Luca differently.
Luca was the careful one.
The quiet one.
The son who listened.
I was the fighter.
The one who took action.
For years, I believed my father trusted me more because he gave me responsibility.
Now I wondered if he had trusted Luca with the things he was afraid to reveal.
"What was inside?"
Luca looked down.
"Names."
"Whose names?"
"People who betrayed him."
My eyes narrowed.
"And Isabella?"
He hesitated.
That hesitation told me everything.
"Was her family involved?"
"I don't know."
"You don't know?"
"I only saw part of the notebook."
"Why?"
"Because someone took it."
"When?"
"The same night I found out Isabella was meeting someone."
I stared at him.
"You're saying the notebook disappeared at the same time she started meeting that man?"
"Yes."
I walked back to the desk.
Everything connected.
The secret meeting.
The hidden passage.
The missing notebook.
The unknown message.
But one question remained.
Why would Isabella protect me if she was hiding something?
Because something about her behavior bothered me.
If she wanted to betray me, she had chances.
Many chances.
She had access to my office.
My information.
My trust.
But she never used any of it against me.
She hid.
She lied.
But she didn't attack.
That meant something.
My phone vibrated again.
Another message.
This time from Isabella.
I opened it.
Alessandro, we need to talk. Alone.
I showed Luca.
His expression hardened.
"Don't go."
"Why?"
"Because if she knows about the notebook..."
"Then what?"
Luca looked at me.
"Then she knows more than she admitted."
I put on my jacket.
"I need to hear it from her."
"Alessandro."
I stopped.
Luca's voice became quieter.
"Be careful."
I looked back.
"Since when are you worried about me?"
His eyes dropped.
"Since I realized I might not be able to protect you."
That answer stayed with me.
I left the office.
But I didn't go to Isabella.
Not immediately.
I went somewhere else.
The old chapel.
The place Luca said he found the notebook.
The Moretti estate had many rooms people knew about.
The dining hall.
The library.
The offices.
The guest rooms.
But the chapel was different.
It was where my father went when he wanted to disappear.
Nobody disturbed him there.
Nobody asked questions.
The door was old.
The lock was original.
I touched the handle.
It opened.
Too easily.
My instincts immediately changed.
Someone had been there recently.
Inside, dust covered almost everything.
Almost.
The small wooden table near the altar had fresh scratches.
Someone had moved something.
I searched carefully.
Behind the wall panel, I found the hidden compartment.
Empty.
Just like Luca said.
But there was something else.
A small piece of paper folded tightly in the corner.
I picked it up.
Only three words were written.
"Don't trust Luca."
I stared at it.
My first reaction was anger.
My second reaction was confusion.
Because I didn't know who to believe anymore.
My brother said someone wanted me to distrust him.
Someone else left a message saying the opposite.
I unfolded the paper completely.
There was more underneath.
A date.
The date of my father's death.
And a name.
A name I had never expected.
Isabella Romano.
I stepped back.
The chapel suddenly felt smaller.
My phone rang.
Unknown number.
I answered.
"Who are you?"
The voice was different this time.
A woman.
Soft.
Shaking.
"Alessandro."
I froze.
Because I knew that voice.
Not from yesterday.
Not from recent years.
From my childhood.
A voice I had not heard since the night my father died.
"Who is this?"
A pause.
Then she whispered:
"I was there the night your father was killed."
My hand tightened around the phone.
"Tell me your name."
The woman breathed in.
Then said:
"Maria Moretti."
I froze.
My mother’s name.
The woman who had died when I was sixteen.
The woman who had been buried beside my father.
Impossible.
The call continued.
"I know who betrayed him."
The chapel door behind me slowly opened.
I turned.
Someone was standing there.
May you like
Holding the missing black notebook.
And the person said my name.
