Chapter 7 - A House Full of SecretsFor the next 5 days, the villa changed.
Nothing obvious happened. Meals arrived on schedule. Lena trained with Marco. Italian lessons continued. Victor attended meetings.
But security doubled.
Two guards became four whenever Lena entered the gardens. Cars arrived after midnight. Men disappeared into Victor’s office and emerged hours later looking grim.
Lena learned something important about power.
The loudest moments were not always the dangerous ones.
Sometimes danger looked like men speaking quietly behind closed doors.
Victor told her very little during the first 48 hours.
That ended on the third night.
He entered their suite at 1:20 a.m., removed his jacket, and placed a folder on the table.
Lena sat up in bed.
“What is that?”
“Information.”
She was moving before the word finished.
Victor opened the folder.
Inside were photographs, copies of passports, financial records.
“Emily Hayes used at least four identities over eleven years.”
Lena’s chest tightened.
“Elizabeth Hale. Emilia Rossi. Claire Hammond. Elena Ward.”
“Why?”
“We do not know.”
“She was really alive.”
Victor looked at her.
“Yes.”
No comforting ambiguity remained.
Her mother had survived the accident.
And disappeared.
Lena sat down.
Victor slid a photograph toward her.
Emily walking through Milan three years ago.
Another outside a train station in Lyon.
Another entering a building in Geneva.
Lena touched the edge of the image.
“She looks different.”
“Older.”
“No.”
Lena swallowed.
“Afraid.”
Victor studied the picture.
“You see that?”
“The way she keeps looking behind her.”
A strange expression crossed his face.
Approval.
“You are becoming observant.”
“Do not sound proud.”
“I am.”
She ignored the warmth the word created.
“Who was following her?”
“We found evidence that a private organization has been tracking her for years.”
“Bianchi?”
“No.”
“Then who?”
Victor pulled out another page.
A name.
Carlo De Santis.
Lena read it.
“Who is he?”
Victor’s face became unreadable.
“My predecessor.”
She frowned.
“The don before you?”
“Yes.”
“I thought your father—”
“My father died when I was 24. De Santis controlled Rome afterward. I worked under him for 6 years before taking control.”
“How?”
Victor looked at her.
“You do not need that story tonight.”
“Did you kill him?”
“Yes.”
Lena exhaled.
“Right.”
“De Santis was not a good man.”
“And you are?”
“No.”
At least they had consistency.
“What does he have to do with my mother?”
“We found payments from companies linked to De Santis to private investigators tracking Emily.”
“Before he died?”
“Yes.”
“Why would an Italian crime boss care about a suburban mother from Pennsylvania?”
Victor did not answer.
Lena’s stomach tightened.
“You know something.”
“I suspect.”
“What?”
He looked toward the window.
“Your mother may not have been who your father believed.”
Lena laughed once.
“Apparently nobody in my family is.”
Victor continued carefully.
“Emily’s birth records are inconsistent.”
“What does that mean?”
“She told Robert she was born in Connecticut.”
“She was.”
“No.”
Lena went still.
Victor placed a document in front of her.
“The hospital she named has no record of Emily Carter being born there.”
“Records can be lost.”
“Her Social Security number belonged to a child who died in 1978.”
Lena stared at him.
“That is impossible.”
“Not impossible.”
“What are you saying?”
“I am saying Emily Hayes was an identity.”
Lena stood.
“My mother was a person.”
“I did not say otherwise.”
“You are talking about her like some file.”
“Because files are what I have.”
“She was my mother. She made grilled cheese when I was sick. She sang Fleetwood Mac badly in the car. She hated spiders and always burned pancakes.”
Victor’s expression softened.
“I know.”
“No, you do not.”
“You are right.”
The simple admission disarmed her.
Victor moved closer.
“Those memories are real regardless of her name.”
Lena looked down at the photographs.
“Who was she?”
“That is what we are trying to discover.”
A knock interrupted them.
Marco entered without waiting.
That alone told Lena something was wrong.
“Victor.”
The men switched to Italian.
Lena caught enough.
Vehicle.
Gate.
Woman.
Victor’s face went cold.
“What happened?”
Marco looked at Lena.
“A car stopped outside the east gate.”
“So?”
“The driver left something.”
“What?”
Marco placed an envelope on the table.
Her name was written across the front.
LENA.
Her mother’s handwriting.
Lena knew instantly.
She had saved birthday cards for years after Emily’s death.
The loops of the L.
The sharp angle of the A.
Her knees weakened.
Victor caught the envelope before she did.
“No.”
“Give it to me.”
“We check it first.”
“It is paper.”
“It could contain poison.”
Lena stared.
“You people live like this?”
“Yes.”
Marco took the envelope.
Ten minutes later, security cleared it.
Lena tore it open.
Inside was a single page.
My darling Lena,
If you are reading this, then things have gone worse than I feared.
I am alive.
I know what that sentence does to you. I know there is no apology large enough for what I allowed you to believe.
Do not trust Salvatore Bianchi.
Do not trust anyone who says they can bring you to me.
I left because staying would have killed you.
I have watched you from a distance every year.
I know about college. I know about the poetry contest when you were fourteen. I know you broke your wrist during track practice at sixteen. I know your father tried his best.
And I know you are now married to Victor Moretti.
That was never supposed to happen.
Victor swore.
Not loudly.
But Lena heard it.
The letter continued.
He is dangerous.
But if he is the man I believe he became, he may be the safest person you can stand beside right now.
Ask him about Carlo De Santis.
Ask him what happened in Naples in 2002.
Then decide whether to trust him.
I love you.
I have always loved you.
Mom.
Lena read it twice.
Then a third time.
Victor stood motionless.
“What happened in Naples in 2002?”
His face had changed.
Not anger.
Something deeper.
Something Lena had never seen.
Fear.
“Victor.”
He picked up the letter.
Read the line.
Then looked at Marco.
“Lock the villa.”
Marco did not question him.
Every door.
Every gate.
No one leaves.
No one enters.
The orders came rapidly.
Lena grabbed Victor’s arm.
“Tell me.”
“Not here.”
“We are in your bedroom.”
He looked around.
“I said not here.”
That terrified her.
Victor opened a concealed panel inside his dressing room.
Behind it was a staircase.
Of course there was.
They descended into a windowless room beneath the villa.
A safe room.
Steel walls.
Independent ventilation.
Monitors displaying every security camera on the estate.
Marco followed and closed the door.
Victor turned toward Lena.
“In 2002, De Santis ordered the killing of a federal informant in Naples.”
“So?”
“The informant was American.”
Lena’s mouth went dry.
“A woman.”
Victor nodded.
“Her real name was Elena Bell.”
The resemblance between the name and Emily struck her.
“Who was she?”
“An FBI financial analyst working with Italian authorities.”
“My mother?”
“I do not know.”
“Victor.”
“I was 29 years old. I worked for De Santis.”
“You were involved.”
His eyes met hers.
“Yes.”
Lena stopped breathing.
“What did you do?”
“I was ordered to locate Elena Bell and her daughter.”
“Her daughter.”
“Yes.”
“How old?”
Victor looked sick.
“Eight.”
The exact age Lena had been when Emily disappeared.
“No.”
“Lena—”
“No.”
Everything rearranged itself.
Her mother’s false identity.
De Santis.
Victor.
The accident.
“You knew my mother.”
“I never saw her face.”
“You hunted her.”
“Yes.”
The room became too small.
Lena backed away.
“You hunted me.”
Victor flinched.
It was almost imperceptible.
But she saw it.
“I did not know who you were.”
“You hunted an 8-year-old girl.”
“I followed orders to find them. I did not carry out the attack.”
“What attack?”
Silence.
Lena’s voice shook.
“What attack?”
“De Santis’s men arranged the car crash.”
The world vanished beneath her feet.
Her mother had not died in an accident.
Someone had tried to kill her.
And Victor had helped them find her.
“Get away from me.”
“Lena.”
“Get away.”
Victor stopped.
“I did not know.”
“You knew enough.”
“I knew Elena Bell had evidence against De Santis.”
“And the child?”
“I was told the child would be relocated.”
“You believed that?”
Victor looked away.
That was answer enough.
“You knew what kind of man De Santis was.”
“Yes.”
“And you helped.”
“Yes.”
Lena hated him.
In that moment, she truly did.
Not the confused hatred of captivity.
Not the anger twisted with attraction.
Pure, clean horror.
“You told me you were my protection.”
“I am.”
“You are the reason I needed protection!”
“Then.”
“What?”
“I was that man then.”
“You are still that man.”
“No.”
His voice became harder.
“I am not.”
“How dare you.”
Victor stepped forward.
“I killed De Santis.”
Lena froze.
Victor’s eyes burned.
“I killed him because I learned what really happened after the Naples operation. Elena Bell escaped. The girl survived because she was not in the vehicle.”
Lena’s hand went to her mouth.
“I was with Dad.”
“Apparently.”
“He tried again?”
“Yes.”
Victor continued.
“When I discovered De Santis was targeting families and children, I turned against him.”
“You expect me to applaud?”
“No.”
“I helped bring him down. I killed him myself.”
The pieces of Victor suddenly looked different.
His sister.
His hatred of trafficking.
His strange rules about families.
His protection of Lena.
“You recognized my mother’s name?”
“No. Emily Hayes meant nothing to me.”
“But Elena Bell?”
“I believed she died years later.”
“Until tonight.”
“Yes.”
Lena looked at her mother’s letter.
“Mom knew who you were.”
“Apparently.”
“And she told me you might be safe.”
Victor’s expression was almost bitter.
“She has more faith in me than she should.”
For several seconds no one spoke.
Then one of the security monitors flickered.
Marco leaned forward.
“What?”
A camera showed the east wall.
Nothing.
Then black.
Another camera failed.
Then another.
Victor reached for his gun.
“They are here.”
“Who?”
Marco looked toward the steel door.
“Someone who knew Mrs. Moretti’s mother would send that letter.”
Victor grabbed Lena’s face between his hands.
“Listen to me.”
She wanted to push him away.
Then alarms began screaming.
“Whatever you feel about me, whatever you decide after tonight, you stay with Marco.”
“What about you?”
“I am going upstairs.”
“No.”
The answer came instinctively.
Victor paused.
Their eyes met.
Lena hated him.
She also did not want him to die.
Those two truths existed simultaneously.
His thumb brushed her cheek.
May you like
“Stay alive, Lena.”
Then Victor Moretti turned and walked toward the war that had finally reached his home.
