Chapter 7 - The Betrayal Sitting at Alessandro’s TableAlessandro did not defend Marco.
That frightened me.
If someone had accused Rosa of being involved in the secrets destroying my life, I would have denied it instantly.
Alessandro simply stared at the photograph.
His expression became emptier by the second.
Controlled rage, I realized, was much quieter than anger.
“How long has Marco worked for you?” I asked.
“Thirteen years.”
“And you trust him?”
“Yes.”
The word sounded painful.
Matteo placed the photograph on the table.
“His father was Enzo Valenti.”
Alessandro nodded.
“I know.”
“What do you know?”
“He worked for my father.”
“And Vittorio.”
Alessandro’s eyes sharpened.
“No.”
“Yes.”
Matteo sat heavily.
“Enzo was the bridge between the families.”
“A mediator?”
“A spy.”
I looked toward the cracked window.
“So Marco’s father told Caruso where Daniel was going the night he died?”
“We think so.”
“Think?”
“We never proved it.”
Alessandro picked up his phone.
I touched his wrist.
“What are you doing?”
“Calling Marco.”
“No.”
He looked at my hand.
Then at me.
“Why?”
“Because if he’s involved, calling him tells him we know.”
“He already knows where we are.”
“Maybe.”
“That bullet—”
“Could have been sent by someone trying to make us suspect Marco.”
Alessandro studied me.
“You think it is a setup?”
“I think I’ve spent two days learning that everyone in this story survived by making everyone else believe something that wasn’t true.”
Matteo smiled faintly.
“Daniel would have liked you.”
The comment hurt and comforted me simultaneously.
Alessandro lowered the phone.
“Fine.”
I released his wrist.
He glanced at the place where my fingers had touched him.
Something flickered between us.
Not now.
Definitely not now.
We returned to the Marchesi house before sunset.
Marco was already there.
Of course he was.
He stood near the front steps wearing the same composed expression I remembered from Bella Notte.
When he saw me, his smile appeared.
“Julia. Palermo suits you.”
My stomach tightened.
“Thanks.”
Alessandro walked beside me.
Nothing in his face revealed what we knew.
“Problem in Cefalù?” Marco asked.
“Broken window.”
“Police?”
“No.”
Marco nodded.
If he knew more, he hid it perfectly.
Dinner became the strangest performance of my life.
Teresa served pasta con le sarde.
Sofia remained connected by video for part of the meal.
Marco discussed business.
Alessandro answered calmly.
I ate almost nothing.
Every time Marco lifted his glass, I saw his father in that photograph.
Finally Marco turned toward me.
“You found the letter?”
I froze.
Alessandro’s fork stopped.
The silence was microscopic.
Only a second.
But I felt it.
“How do you know about a letter?” I asked.
Marco smiled.
“Alessandro mentioned it.”
I looked toward Alessandro.
He nodded once.
Maybe he had.
Maybe this meant nothing.
I hated not knowing.
Marco continued.
“Did it answer your questions?”
“Mostly created new ones.”
“That is Sicily.”
“Does everyone here speak in riddles?”
“Only when telling the truth would cause problems.”
The words felt deliberate.
I smiled politely.
After dinner, I escaped onto the terrace.
The night smelled of lemons and rain.
Alessandro joined me five minutes later.
“He knows something,” I said.
“Yes.”
“You noticed?”
“He asked about the letter.”
“You did tell him?”
“Yes.”
“When?”
“Before we left New York.”
I exhaled.
“So that proves nothing.”
“No.”
I leaned against the stone railing.
“I hate this.”
“So do I.”
“Do you?”
He looked toward the lights of Palermo.
“Marco was there when my father died.”
I turned.
“What?”
“Hospital. Ten years ago.”
“I’m sorry.”
“My father trusted him.”
“That makes this worse.”
“Yes.”
“What was your father like?”
Alessandro was silent for several seconds.
“Complicated.”
“That usually means difficult.”
“He could be.”
“Cruel?”
“To enemies.”
“To you?”
His mouth tightened.
“Sometimes.”
I looked at him.
The powerful Alessandro Marchesi.
The man who entered Bella Notte surrounded by people who watched his reactions before making their own.
For the first time, I imagined him younger.
Eleven years old when his aunt died.
Eighteen when he was sent away.
A son born into a family name already heavy with other people’s choices.
“You really did change the businesses?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
He leaned on the railing beside me.
“Because one night when I was sixteen, I heard my father and another man discussing someone who had refused a contract.”
I waited.
“I realized everyone in the room was afraid.”
“Of your father?”
“Yes.”
“And?”
“I had spent my childhood believing fear and respect were the same thing.”
His gaze met mine.
“That night, I understood they were opposites.”
Something in my chest shifted.
“So you changed it.”
“I tried.”
“Still trying?”
“Every day.”
We stood quietly.
Then I asked, “Why did you really offer me that job?”
“At Bella Notte?”
“Yes.”
He smiled faintly.
“You still think I was trying to buy you.”
“I think five hundred dollars was suspicious.”
“I liked your accent.”
“That’s your defense?”
“No.”
He turned toward me fully.
“I liked that you heard four men you believed might be dangerous speaking about you, and instead of pretending not to understand, you corrected us.”
“I corrected Marco.”
“You corrected the table.”
“I thanked you.”
“In Sicilian.”
“Yes.”
His voice lowered.
“You sounded like home.”
The terrace suddenly became too quiet.
My heartbeat accelerated.
He stepped closer.
Not touching.
Just enough that I felt the warmth between us.
“You looked at me like I was a person,” he continued. “Not a surname.”
“You were ordering water.”
“That helped.”
I smiled.
He smiled too.
The distance between us felt fragile.
His gaze dropped briefly to my mouth.
I forgot every reason this was a terrible idea.
Then the terrace doors opened.
Marco.
“Sorry.”
He did not look sorry.
“Alessandro, call from New York.”
The moment broke.
Alessandro stepped back.
I immediately missed the warmth.
He went inside.
Marco remained.
For several seconds, neither of us spoke.
Then he said, “Be careful.”
I looked at him.
“With what?”
“Alessandro.”
My spine stiffened.
“Why?”
“He does not do anything halfway.”
“That sounds like a warning.”
“It is.”
“Are you warning me because you care about him?”
Marco’s expression changed.
“Because I know what happens to women who become important to Marchesi men.”
Caterina.
The words landed harder than he probably intended.
“Was your father responsible for what happened to her?”
Marco stopped breathing.
Only for a fraction.
But I saw it.
“Who told you that?”
I stepped back.
“You didn’t say no.”
“Julia.”
“Did Enzo Valenti work for Caruso?”
His face hardened.
“You have been talking to Matteo.”
That was enough.
My blood went cold.
We had never told Marco we found Matteo.
He realized his mistake immediately.
I moved toward the door.
He caught my arm.
Not painfully.
But firmly.
“Listen to me.”
“Let go.”
“I am trying to keep you alive.”
“So is everyone.”
“You do not understand what you found.”
“What did we find?”
His jaw tightened.
I looked at his hand.
“Let go.”
He released me.
Immediately.
“I’m sorry.”
“Tell me.”
He looked toward the house.
Then lowered his voice.
“My father was not the traitor.”
“Then who was?”
“I cannot tell you here.”
“Convenient.”
“Julia.”
His face had changed completely.
No charm.
No relaxed humor.
Fear.
Real fear.
“The moment Alessandro sees the full record, he will understand.”
“Understand what?”
“That the person who betrayed Daniel Reed is still inside this family.”
I stared at him.
“Who?”
Marco looked toward the terrace door.
His face drained of color.
I turned.
Teresa stood there.
Her expression unreadable.
Marco stepped backward.
“Ask her,” he whispered.
Then he walked away.
I looked at Teresa.
For a long time, neither of us spoke.
Finally she said, “You should not trust Marco.”
“Why?”
“Because his father betrayed us.”
“He says he didn’t.”
“Of course he does.”
“He says the traitor is still inside this family.”
Teresa’s face did not move.
But her fingers tightened around the doorframe.
“Did you know Daniel Reed?”
“Yes.”
“Did you know what route he was taking the night he died?”
Silence.
My chest tightened.
“Teresa.”
She closed her eyes.
“Yes.”
Everything inside me went still.
“Who else knew?”
“Your mother.”
“Caterina.”
“Yes.”
“Riccardo.”
“Yes.”
“Enzo?”
“Yes.”
“And you.”
“Yes.”
I stepped backward.
“Did you tell Vittorio?”
Her eyes snapped open.
“No.”
“Then what aren’t you telling me?”
Tears appeared.
“Julia…”
“What?”
She whispered, “Daniel was never supposed to be in that car.”
A cold sensation moved across my skin.
“What does that mean?”
“The route Enzo gave Vittorio was meant for someone else.”
“Who?”
Teresa looked through the glass toward her son.
Then back at me.
“For Riccardo Marchesi.”
Alessandro’s father.
I stared.
“So Caruso thought he was attacking Riccardo?”
“No.”
Her next words nearly stopped my heart.
“Caruso was not responsible for the crash.”
“Then who was?”
Teresa’s face collapsed.
“My husband.”
I stopped breathing.
“Riccardo?”
She nodded.
“Why would Riccardo kill my father?”
“He didn’t mean to.”
“That sentence doesn’t make any sense.”
Tears spilled down her face.
“He believed Daniel was taking evidence to Vittorio. He believed Daniel had betrayed Caterina.”
“But Daniel was helping her.”
“I know.”
“Did Riccardo know?”
“Not until afterward.”
My voice disappeared.
“What did he do?”
Teresa looked at the floor.
“He buried the truth.”
A sound came behind us.
We turned.
Alessandro stood in the doorway.
His face was white.
He had heard everything.
For several seconds, he looked at his mother.
Then he asked one question.
“Did my father kill hers?”
May you like
Teresa’s tears fell harder.
And her silence answered him.
Related Stories
