Chapter 4 - BellavitaWe flew to Sicily nine days later.
Not because Dante changed his mind.
According to Dante, he had not changed his mind at all.
He had simply “adjusted the parameters of the investigation,” which was apparently mafia-boss language for doing exactly the thing he had sworn we would not do while pretending logic forced him into it.
The reason was sitting in my purse.
A second envelope.
It had arrived at Lucia’s home forty-eight hours after the first.
Inside was a brass key and four words.
Ask Alessandro what Elena found.
Alessandro Moretti.
Dante and Lucia’s father.
Alive.
Seventy-two years old.
Living in a private estate outside Palermo.
And estranged from both his children for almost a decade.
Dante had not told me that part until we were already packing.
“You have a living father?”
He had looked up from his suitcase.
“I never said he was dead.”
“You let me assume it.”
“You never asked.”
“That is an insane defense.”
“I didn’t realize parental inventory was required before marriage.”
I threw one of his shirts at him.
He caught it with one hand.
Then smiled.
The smile irritated me even more because it made him look younger.
Less haunted.
“What happened between you?” I asked.
The smile disappeared.
“Many things.”
“Specific.”
“My father believed loyalty to the family mattered more than morality.”
“And you didn’t?”
“I believed loyalty without morality was just obedience.”
That sentence told me more than a twenty-minute explanation probably would have.
We left Lily in Chicago.
That nearly broke me.
She stayed with Lucia, Marco, and enough security personnel to defend a small country.
I still checked the cameras on my phone every hour.
Dante never mocked me for it.
Probably because he checked twice as often.
The villa called Bellavita stood outside Taormina overlooking the sea.
Or what remained of it did.
The fire had destroyed most of the original structure, but the stone foundation survived.
So did one wing.
Someone had repaired it.
Recently.
“That wasn’t here last year,” Dante said.
We stood outside the gate beneath the Sicilian sun.
“You came last year?”
“No.”
“Then how do you know?”
“Satellite images.”
Of course.
Dante had spent the previous week examining twenty years of records, land transfers, insurance claims, death certificates, tax filings, and old family accounts.
Bellavita still legally belonged to Elena Moretti.
Which should have been impossible.
Dead people generally did not pay property taxes.
Someone had paid them for twenty-two years.
Always in cash.
Always through different intermediaries.
“Romantic place,” I murmured.
Dante glanced at me.
“You’re making jokes.”
“When I’m nervous.”
“I know.”
He took my hand.
“We can leave.”
I looked toward the restored wing.
“Do you want to?”
“No.”
“Then neither do I.”
We entered.
Dust coated the old stone courtyard.
A fountain stood in the center.
The same fountain from the photograph.
Dante stopped when he saw it.
I felt his hand tighten around mine.
“She used to sit there in the mornings.”
His voice softened.
“She’d drink coffee and pretend she wasn’t watching us climb the trees.”
“You climbed trees?”
“I was a child.”
“I’m having trouble picturing you as one.”
“I was adorable.”
I laughed.
“You were probably terrifying.”
“Both can be true.”
We reached the surviving wing.
The brass key fit the front door.
That was when my anxiety became fear.
Whoever sent the envelopes hadn’t just known about Bellavita.
They had access.
Dante entered first.
The interior smelled like wood, dust, and citrus.
Someone had cleaned recently.
A vase on the table held fresh white flowers.
Dante drew a gun.
I stopped.
Despite everything I knew about him, despite everything we had been through, seeing that weapon in his hand still reminded me there were parts of his world I would never find normal.
“Stay behind me.”
“I hate when you say that.”
“Humor me.”
We searched the ground floor.
Empty.
Kitchen.
Study.
Dining room.
A narrow hallway lined with family photographs.
Dante stopped in front of one.
A boy of about ten stood beside Elena.
Dark hair.
Serious eyes.
Dante.
Lucia, maybe five, sat on Elena’s hip.
“You looked angry even then.”
“I didn’t like photographs.”
“You still don’t.”
“I have consistency.”
At the end of the hallway stood a locked wooden door.
The brass key fit that too.
Inside was a small office.
Unlike the rest of the villa, everything in there appeared untouched.
Desk.
Books.
A sewing basket.
An old telephone.
A shelf filled with handwritten journals.
Dante stopped breathing.
“Her room.”
“What?”
“My mother used this room.”
He entered slowly.
I stayed near the doorway.
This wasn’t mine.
Not yet.
He touched the desk.
Then the chair.
Then a silver picture frame facing downward.
He turned it over.
The photograph showed Elena beside a younger Alessandro Moretti.
They were smiling.
Actually smiling.
For the first time, I understood Dante hadn’t grown up in darkness from the beginning.
There had been love once.
Which somehow made what followed worse.
“Dante.”
He looked at me.
“There are journals.”
His gaze moved toward the shelf.
We spent the next two hours reading.
Most were ordinary.
Recipes.
Travel notes.
Stories about Dante and Lucia.
Complaints about Alessandro working too much.
Descriptions of parties.
Birthdays.
Family arguments.
Then, in the final journal, the tone changed.
June 14
Alessandro says I am imagining things. I know what I saw.
June 19
Vittorio agrees with me. The shipments are not what Alessandro believes they are.
Dante froze.
“Shipments?”
I kept reading.
June 23
Children. God forgive us. They are moving children.
My stomach turned.
Dante took the journal from me.
His eyes moved quickly over the pages.
The Moretti organization had trafficked contraband decades ago.
Weapons.
Stolen goods.
Cash.
He had told me that.
But not people.
Never children.
“He didn’t know,” Dante said.
His voice sounded distant.
“Your father?”
“He had rules. Even then. Drugs away from schools. No trafficking. No children.”
“You believe him?”
Dante looked at me.
“I don’t know.”
That answer cost him something.
We read on.
Elena had discovered that a business partner named Carlo Bellandi was using Moretti shipping routes to move young women and children through ports controlled by Alessandro.
She confronted Alessandro.
He refused to believe her.
So Elena began collecting evidence herself.
With Vittorio’s help.
The supposedly dead driver.
The final entry was dated twelve days before Bellavita burned.
Carlo knows.
Three words.
Nothing after.
I closed the journal.
“Bellandi.”
Dante stared at the page.
“I know the name.”
“Who is he?”
“Dead.”
I waited.
He corrected himself.
“Supposedly.”
“Because we’ve learned how reliable that word is.”
Dante stood.
“Carlo Bellandi was my father’s closest friend.”
His face had become pale.
“He died the same year my mother did.”
“How?”
“Boat explosion.”
I stared at him.
“Fire again.”
“Yes.”
“That seems convenient.”
“Yes.”
A floorboard creaked upstairs.
Dante moved instantly.
He pushed me behind the desk, gun raised.
“Stay.”
“No.”
His eyes flashed.
I lowered my voice.
“I’m not wandering around alone. I’m coming with you.”
He looked furious.
Then apparently decided arguing would make more noise.
We climbed the staircase.
The upper floor contained three bedrooms.
The first two were empty.
The third door stood partially open.
Dante pushed it wider.
An old man sat beside the window.
Gray hair.
Thin face.
Cane resting across his knees.
He looked at Dante and smiled sadly.
“You have Elena’s eyes.”
Dante did not lower the gun.
“Vittorio.”
The old man’s smile disappeared.
“Yes.”
I felt the air leave my lungs.
The dead driver.
Alive.
Dante stepped forward.
“You have ten seconds to explain why I shouldn’t put a bullet through the wall beside your head and make you wish you’d stayed dead.”
Vittorio sighed.
“Still dramatic.”
“Nine.”
“I sent the letters.”
“Eight.”
“Your mother asked me to.”
Dante stopped counting.
Silence filled the room.
Vittorio slowly stood.
He was frail.
Older than I expected.
But his eyes were sharp.
“She asked me twenty-two years ago.”
Dante’s face changed.
“You knew she was going to die?”
“No.”
The old man’s voice cracked.
“I knew someone wanted her dead.”
“Who?”
Vittorio’s gaze moved toward me.
“Carlo Bellandi.”
“He’s dead.”
“No.”
The answer landed like a stone.
Vittorio looked back at Dante.
“Carlo Bellandi is alive.”
Dante’s hand tightened around the gun.
“Where?”
“I don’t know.”
“Then you’re useless to me.”
“Dante.”
I touched his arm.
His muscles were rigid.
Vittorio continued.
“Your mother discovered what Bellandi was doing. She was going to expose him. But your father refused to believe his oldest friend would betray him.”
“And you?”
“I believed Elena.”
“What happened the night Bellavita burned?”
The old man looked toward the window.
“I helped her remove the evidence. Ledgers. Names. Port records. Photographs. She hid them somewhere Carlo couldn’t find.”
“Where?”
“I never knew.”
Dante’s frustration sharpened.
“Then why bring me here?”
“Because three months ago someone broke into this villa.”
Vittorio reached into his coat.
Dante raised the gun.
“Slowly.”
The old man produced a photograph.
He placed it on the bed.
A security image.
A man entering Bellavita at night.
Tall.
Silver-haired.
I couldn’t see his face clearly.
But Dante could.
He went completely still.
“That’s impossible.”
“What?”
He handed me the photograph.
“Who is it?”
Dante’s eyes stayed on Vittorio.
“My father.”
A cold wave passed through me.
“Alessandro came here?”
Vittorio nodded.
“And two days later, someone tried to kill him.”
Dante’s expression hardened.
“What?”
“Brake failure.”
The room went silent.
Exactly like Elena.
“Is he alive?”
“Yes.”
“Why wasn’t I told?”
“Your father refused.”
“Why?”
“Because he believes whoever came for Elena has returned.”
Vittorio looked toward me.
“And because this time, they know about you.”
My heart stopped.
“Me?”
The old man nodded.
“Not only you.”
He pulled another photograph from his coat.
My hand shook before I even took it.
Lily.
Walking into preschool six months earlier.
Taken before Marcus went to prison.
No.
Not Marcus.
Different angle.
Different photograph.
On the back, someone had written:
Moretti men always choose the woman.
Below it:
Make him choose again.
Dante saw it.
Something terrifying entered his face.
Not rage.
Terror.
Pure, absolute paternal terror.
He grabbed his phone.
“Call Lucia.”
I already was.
One ring.
Two.
Three.
No answer.
“Again.”
I called again.
Nothing.
Dante dialed Antonio.
Straight to voicemail.
My hands began shaking.
“No.”
I whispered it.
Then louder.
“No.”
Dante was calling every number connected to the house.
Nobody answered.
I opened the security application.
Cameras offline.
Every one.
My knees almost folded.
“Dante.”
He was already moving.
“We’re leaving.”
“What about—”
“Now.”
We raced downstairs.
I called Lucia again.
This time the call connected.
For one glorious second, relief exploded through me.
“Lucia?”
Static.
Then breathing.
“Lucia?”
A man’s voice answered.
Calm.
Educated.
Old.
“Mrs. Moretti-to-be.”
My blood froze.
Dante stopped walking.
He could hear it through the speaker.
The man continued.
“I’ve waited a very long time to meet Elena’s son.”
“Where is my daughter?”
My voice did not sound like mine.
A soft chuckle.
“Such a predictable first question.”
“Where is Lily?”
“She’s safe.”
Dante took the phone.
“If you touch her—”
“Dante.”
The man sounded almost delighted.
“You grew up exactly as your mother feared.”
Dante’s voice became deadly quiet.
“Carlo.”
Silence.
Then:
“Come home.”
The call ended.
I stared at Dante.
“Who was that?”
But I already knew.
He looked at me.
May you like
“Bellandi.”
And somewhere thousands of miles away, my daughter was with him.
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