Chapter 4 - The Woman Who Was Supposed To Be Dead
The figure standing inside the chapel held my father’s missing notebook in his hand.
I raised my weapon before I even realized I had moved.
"Who are you?"
The person stepped into the light.
And my entire world stopped.
Because the woman standing in front of me was supposed to have been dead for twelve years.
My mother's eyes met mine.
"Alessandro."
I couldn't breathe.
Not because I was afraid.
Because my mind refused to accept what my eyes were seeing.
Maria Moretti.
My mother.
The woman I watched being buried beside my father.
The woman whose death certificate had been signed.
The woman whose photograph sat in my childhood home every year during memorial ceremonies.
Impossible.
That was the only word my brain could form.
Impossible.
She looked older.
Of course she did.
Twelve years had passed.
There were lines around her eyes.
Her dark hair carried strands of silver.
But there was no mistake.
I knew that face.
I knew that voice.
I lowered the weapon slowly.
"You're dead."
The words came out before I could stop them.
My mother looked at me.
Pain crossed her face.
"I know."
The chapel felt like it was moving around me.
Every memory I had built my life on began breaking apart.
My father's death.
My mother's funeral.
The years I spent believing I had lost both parents.
All of it.
A lie.
"How?"
She looked down.
"I didn't have a choice."
I almost laughed.
A bitter sound.
"Everyone has a choice."
Her eyes filled with tears.
"Not when the person threatening you has your son's life in their hands."
That stopped me.
"My life?"
She nodded.
"The night your father died, they knew you would inherit everything."
I stared at her.
"Who?"
She looked toward the chapel door.
Not at me.
At the darkness outside.
Like she was afraid someone was listening.
"Your family."
My expression hardened.
"No."
She looked back at me.
"You need to stop protecting people who never protected you."
I hated those words.
Because part of me knew she was right.
My whole life, I had defended the Moretti name.
I had defended my brother.
I had defended Isabella.
I had defended everyone except myself.
My mother walked toward the old wooden table and placed the notebook down.
"This is what your father died for."
I looked at the notebook.
The black leather cover was worn.
The corners were damaged.
But it was real.
The same notebook I remembered from my childhood.
The same notebook my father carried everywhere.
"Why did Luca have it?"
My mother's expression changed.
"Because your father trusted him."
That answer surprised me.
"You said my family betrayed him."
"Not everyone."
She touched the notebook gently.
"Your brother was trying to protect you."
I thought about Luca.
The fear in his eyes.
The way he warned me.
The way he looked at the phone when that stranger called.
Maybe he had been telling the truth.
"Then why did you let me believe you were dead?"
Her face broke.
For the first time, I saw my mother not as a powerful woman from the Moretti family.
But as someone who had spent twelve years running.
"Because if they knew I was alive, they would have come after you."
"Who?"
She didn't answer immediately.
That bothered me.
People who knew the truth always hesitated before saying names.
Because names made things real.
"Your uncle."
I froze.
"My uncle died before I was born."
She shook her head.
"No."
The room became silent.
"My brother-in-law was the one who arranged your father's death."
I stared at her.
"My father had no brothers."
"Not by blood."
I felt something cold move through me.
"Then who?"
She looked at the notebook.
"Your father's closest friend."
I waited.
"His name was Victor Bellini."
The name meant nothing.
But the way she said it meant everything.
"You knew him?"
"He was part of this family before you were old enough to understand what family meant."
I stepped closer.
"What did he do?"
My mother opened the notebook.
Inside were pages filled with handwriting.
My father's handwriting.
Names.
Dates.
Records.
Payments.
Evidence.
"He discovered Victor had been stealing from the Moretti organization."
I looked at the pages.
"Then why kill him?"
"Because your father didn't just discover the theft."
She turned a page.
"He discovered Victor had been working with someone inside the family."
My eyes moved across the paper.
A list of names.
Some crossed out.
Some circled.
Then I saw one.
Luca Moretti.
My heart stopped.
My mother immediately saw my expression.
"No."
I looked at her.
"His name is here."
"Because your father suspected everyone."
I stared at the page.
"Even me?"
She was silent.
That answer hurt more than anything.
My father suspected me.
My mother noticed.
"He was trying to protect you."
"By writing my name in a notebook?"
"He was trying to find the truth before someone used you."
I looked away.
The hardest thing about betrayal was not discovering someone lied.
It was discovering the people who loved you had reasons.
Everyone had an explanation.
Everyone had a story.
And every story made someone look innocent.
My phone vibrated.
I looked down.
A message.
From Isabella.
Alessandro, please answer me.
I ignored it.
Another message arrived.
This time from the unknown number.
Don't trust the woman in the chapel.
My blood ran cold.
I slowly looked at my mother.
She saw the message.
Her face changed.
"Who sent that?"
"I don't know."
She looked terrified.
Not offended.
Terrified.
"Alessandro, you need to leave."
"Why?"
"Because they know you're here."
Before I could respond, the lights inside the chapel went out.
Complete darkness.
My instincts took over.
I grabbed my mother's arm and moved behind the stone wall.
A second later—
The chapel door opened.
Someone entered.
Slow footsteps.
Calm.
Confident.
Not someone searching.
Someone who knew exactly where they were going.
I held my breath.
My hand tightened around my weapon.
My mother whispered something.
A name.
A name that made my entire body freeze.
"He's here."
I looked at her.
"Who?"
She didn't answer.
Because the person walking through the darkness stopped beside the table.
A lighter clicked.
A small flame appeared.
The notebook on the table became visible.
And the man holding the flame whispered:
"I knew you would come back for it, Alessandro."
I recognized the voice.
The same voice from the phone.
The same voice that had haunted my father's final days.
May you like
Then he stepped into the light.
And I saw the face of the man my family buried twelve years ago.
