Chapter 5 - The Enemy Inside the FamilyVittorio Rinaldi had been dead for two days.
That was the detail that changed everything.
The man I thought I had seen outside my apartment could not have been him.
Someone had wanted me to find his photograph.
Someone had constructed a trail.
Carlo understood before I did.
“We are being directed,” he said.
We were inside his home overlooking the Bay of Naples.
Calling it a home was ridiculous.
It was a fortified villa carved into a hillside, all limestone, glass, security cameras, and views that probably increased the property value by several million euros.
I stood barefoot in his kitchen drinking coffee at 2:00 a.m.
The shooting had destroyed any possibility of sleep.
“Directed toward what?”
“Rinaldi. My father. Old enemies.”
“Why?”
“To make me look outside the family.”
The word family sounded different.
“You think someone inside the Ferretti organization is doing this.”
“Yes.”
“Who?”
“I don’t know.”
“Matteo?”
Carlo’s expression hardened.
“No.”
“You answered quickly.”
“He is my brother.”
“That does not make him innocent.”
“No. Thirty-eight years of knowing him does.”
“What about Enzo?”
Silence.
Interesting.
“You hesitated.”
“Enzo is complicated.”
“So are you.”
“Not like Enzo.”
Carlo looked toward the windows.
“My younger brother was sixteen when our father started bringing him into meetings. Enzo learned very early that affection and leverage could look identical.”
“And you do not trust him.”
“I love him.”
“That was not my question.”
“No.”
There it was.
The Ferretti family fracture.
The next morning, I met Enzo.
He arrived without warning.
Of course.
Apparently Ferretti men considered invitations optional.
Enzo was different from Carlo and Matteo.
Younger.
Elegant.
Charming.
His smile arrived easily.
Too easily.
“So this is Adriana.”
“I am beginning to hate that sentence.”
He laughed.
“I understand why Carlo likes you.”
“Enzo,” Carlo warned.
“What? Everyone knows.”
“I didn’t,” I said.
Enzo looked delighted.
“My brother is apparently terrible at romance.”
Carlo looked capable of homicide.
Maybe not the best joke.
Enzo kissed my hand.
Old-fashioned.
Charming.
And somehow completely insincere.
“Welcome to the family chaos.”
“I am not part of the family.”
“Not yet.”
Carlo nearly choked on his coffee.
I liked Enzo immediately.
I trusted him not at all.
Over the next week, the threats stopped.
That should have been comforting.
It was not.
Carlo doubled security.
I returned to my studio.
Bellucci loved my first designs.
Business improved.
And Carlo became part of my life in strange, incremental ways.
Coffee appeared at my studio.
Never flowers.
He had learned quickly that I considered flowers impractical.
He sent lunch when I forgot to eat.
I sent it back twice.
The third time, I ate it.
We argued about everything.
Typography.
Politics.
Coffee.
His habit of having people drive everywhere.
My habit of working until 2:00 a.m.
We kissed frequently.
We did not sleep together.
Not because I did not want to.
Because wanting Carlo had become frighteningly easy.
Trusting him remained difficult.
One Thursday evening, he cooked for me.
Actually cooked.
Risotto.
From scratch.
“You look shocked,” he said.
“I expected private chefs.”
“I have one.”
“Of course.”
“I gave him the night off.”
“Why?”
“Because you told me to prove it.”
I remembered.
The restaurant.
Before the shooting.
“You remembered.”
“I remember everything you say.”
That sentence stayed with me.
We ate on the terrace.
Naples glittered below.
For several hours, Carlo was simply a man.
Then his phone rang.
He looked at the screen.
Ignored it.
It rang again.
“Answer.”
“No.”
“Could be important.”
“You are important.”
My heart did something inconvenient.
“Carlo.”
He answered.
Matteo’s voice was loud enough that I heard fragments.
Shipment.
Missing.
Enzo.
Police.
Carlo stood.
“I need to go.”
“Trouble?”
“Yes.”
He kissed my forehead.
“I will call.”
He left.
He did not call.
At midnight, I texted.
Nothing.
At two, nothing.
At five thirty, someone pounded on my apartment door.
I froze.
Then Luca’s voice came through.
“Ms. Romano.”
I opened.
His face told me immediately.
“What happened?”
“Carlo has been arrested.”
My stomach dropped.
“For what?”
“Murder.”
The room tilted.
“Who?”
Luca swallowed.
“Vittorio Rinaldi.”
I stared.
“That is impossible.”
“They found evidence connecting Carlo to the location where the body was discovered.”
“What evidence?”
“His gun.”
My mind raced.
“Was it his?”
“Yes.”
“Could someone have stolen it?”
Luca hesitated.
“Only someone with access to his private office.”
Family.
Inside.
I understood.
“Enzo.”
“I did not say that.”
“You did not have to.”
Carlo was held for twenty-two hours.
Then released pending investigation.
I waited outside the police station.
He emerged wearing yesterday’s clothes.
Exhausted.
Angry.
Beautiful.
He stopped when he saw me.
“You should not be here.”
“Hello to you too.”
“Adriana.”
I walked toward him.
Then slapped him.
Not hard.
Enough.
Every security guard froze.
Carlo stared at me.
“That is for not calling.”
“I was arrested.”
“You had lawyers.”
“Yes.”
“You could have told someone to contact me.”
“I wanted you away from this.”
I slapped his chest this time.
“You do not decide when I get to care.”
His expression cracked.
Something vulnerable appeared.
Then he pulled me against him.
I held him.
Hard.
For perhaps the first time, Carlo Ferretti allowed someone else to support his weight.
Only for a second.
But I felt it.
That evening, we discovered the truth.
Security footage from Carlo’s villa had been deleted.
But my profession had taught me something useful.
People forgot metadata.
One of Carlo’s security backups automatically uploaded thumbnail previews to an external server used by the surveillance software.
Tiny images.
Low resolution.
But enough.
At 11:43 p.m., two nights before Rinaldi’s murder, someone entered Carlo’s office.
Enzo.
Carlo stared at the image.
“No.”
“Carlo.”
“No.”
“He entered the room.”
“That does not prove—”
“He told you he was in Rome that night.”
Silence.
Carlo looked older suddenly.
Not weak.
Wounded.
His phone rang.
Enzo.
Carlo answered.
Neither spoke initially.
Then Enzo laughed.
“You found the backup.”
Carlo’s face became stone.
“Why?”
“You always were the clever one.”
“Why, Enzo?”
“Because Father left everything to you.”
Carlo closed his eyes.
“Not everything.”
“Everything that mattered.”
“You had money.”
“I wanted power.”
“You could have asked.”
Enzo laughed again.
“You would have given me an office. A title. A seat at your table.”
“I would have given you anything.”
“Except your chair.”
Carlo’s voice broke slightly.
“You are my brother.”
“And that has always been my problem.”
The call ended.
Thirty seconds later, Luca ran into the room.
“Carlo.”
“What?”
“Enzo took Adriana’s assistant.”
My blood froze.
“Lucia?”
Luca nodded.
A message arrived on my phone.
A photograph.
Lucia tied to a chair.
Terrified.
May you like
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Come alone, Adriana. Or she dies because you chose the wrong Ferretti brother.
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