Chapter 8 - The Night Alessio Asked for HelpThe invitation arrived on a Wednesday.
It was delivered to the Moretti estate in a plain white envelope, without a return address. Inside was a card bearing a time, a location, and a sentence printed in black ink.
Come alone if you want the truth about your father.
Alessio read it once.
Then he placed it on his desk and called Marco.
"Find out where this came from."
Marco examined the card.
"The paper is ordinary. The printing is commercial. No fingerprints worth identifying."
"What about the location?"
"A closed restaurant near the old waterfront. It has been empty for almost 2 years."
Alessio looked toward the window.
"Bellandi wants a meeting."
"Or wants you to believe he does."
"Either way, he expects me to respond."
Marco folded his arms.
"We should assume the location is compromised."
"Of course."
"Then you will not go."
Alessio turned toward him.
"I did not say that."
Marco's expression hardened.
"Don, with respect, this is precisely what Bellandi wants. He knows the investigation is moving against him. He wants to provoke you into making a mistake."
"I am aware of the possibility."
"Then why consider it?"
Alessio looked down at the invitation.
Because the letter mentioned his father.
Because he had spent years believing that Matteo's shooting was an isolated act of violence, something that had happened during a dangerous period and could never be fully explained.
Because every new document suggested that the truth had been deliberately withheld.
And because he was beginning to understand how much of his life had been shaped by decisions made in fear.
"I want to know what he has," Alessio said.
Marco shook his head.
"We can find another way."
"Perhaps."
"Alessio."
The use of his first name made him pause.
Marco rarely spoke to him that way.
"I have worked for your family for 19 years," Marco continued. "I have watched you make decisions under pressure that would have broken other men. But I have also watched you confuse taking a risk with refusing to accept help."
Alessio stared at him.
"Is that what you think I am doing?"
"I think you want to go because you are angry. And because you believe that if you face Bellandi alone, you can force the truth out of him."
Marco hesitated.
"You cannot control what another man chooses to do."
Alessio's fingers tightened against the armrest.
He hated hearing the truth when it came from someone who had known him long enough to recognize his habits.
"Arrange surveillance," he said finally. "Independent of the family."
Marco nodded.
"And inform the investigators handling the case. If Bellandi is offering information about the shooting, I want them aware of the meeting."
Marco looked relieved.
"Understood."
Alessio glanced toward the doorway.
"Do not tell Isabella until I have confirmed the location."
Marco's expression changed.
"Why?"
"Because she has enough to worry about."
"That is not a reason to withhold information from her."
Alessio looked sharply at him.
Marco did not retreat.
"You told her she would be informed about anything affecting her safety. This invitation concerns the same investigation that has already brought threats to her business."
Alessio was silent.
Then he exhaled.
"Tell her."
Marco left.
Alessio sat alone for several minutes, thinking about the conversation.
He had spent much of his life protecting people by limiting what they knew.
He had called it responsibility.
Sometimes it had been necessary.
Other times, he suspected, it had simply been easier than allowing the people he loved to disagree with him.
When Isabella arrived that evening, he showed her the invitation.
She read it carefully.
"You're considering going."
"Yes."
"With security?"
"Yes."
"And the investigators know?"
"They have been informed."
She looked at him.
"Then I have 1 question."
"Ask."
"What do you want from the meeting?"
Alessio considered the answer.
"Information."
"That is what you think you want. What do you actually want?"
He looked away.
She waited.
"I want him to admit what he did," he said finally. "I want him to explain why my father was shot. I want to know why Enzo kept silent."
His voice became quieter.
"And I want to stop wondering whether I could have prevented it."
Isabella sat opposite him.
"That last part is the most difficult."
"I know."
"You were 27. You were managing an organization, caring for your father, and dealing with your own injury. You cannot hold yourself responsible for every decision other people made."
Alessio looked down at his hands.
"I have spent years believing that if I were stronger, smarter, or more careful, certain things would not have happened."
She understood.
After her father's death, Isabella had often wondered whether she could have done more.
Whether she should have insisted on another doctor, found another specialist, or persuaded him to accept help earlier.
Grief had made every past decision appear like a missed opportunity.
She had eventually learned that regret could become an endless argument with events that no longer allowed a response.
"You can learn from what happened," she said. "You can change what happens next. But you cannot punish yourself into rewriting the past."
Alessio watched her.
"Is that what you did?"
"Sometimes."
"And did it work?"
"No."
He smiled faintly.
"Disappointing."
"Terribly."
She reached for his hand.
"Promise me something."
"What?"
"If the meeting becomes dangerous, you will leave. You will not stay because you want an answer."
Alessio hesitated.
She tightened her fingers around his.
"Alessio."
"I promise I will not deliberately remain in danger to force him to speak."
She studied his face.
It was not a perfect promise.
It was honest.
She accepted it.
The following evening, Alessio traveled to the waterfront with Marco and a security team that remained outside the restaurant.
The independent investigators had been informed of the meeting, and surveillance had been arranged around the building.
Alessio entered through the front door.
The restaurant smelled of dust, damp wood, and old cooking oil.
Tables stood beneath faded photographs of ships that no longer used the harbor. The windows were dark, and rain tapped against the glass.
Nicolò Bellandi sat near the back.
He was 62, with silver hair, a neatly trimmed beard, and the relaxed posture of someone who had never needed to raise his voice to make other people nervous.
He wore an expensive charcoal suit.
A walking cane rested beside his chair, although he did not appear to need it.
"Alessio," he said. "You came."
"You invited me."
Bellandi smiled.
"Your father used to say that you were more stubborn than he was."
"My father said many things."
"Yes. Some of them were wise."
Alessio stopped beside the table.
"What do you want?"
Bellandi gestured toward the chair opposite him.
"Sit."
"I am comfortable here."
Bellandi glanced at the wheelchair.
"Of course."
The remark was subtle, but its intention was clear.
Alessio's expression did not change.
"If you have something to say about my disability, say it directly."
Bellandi raised his eyebrows.
"I was merely acknowledging your comfort."
"No. You were testing whether I would react."
A brief smile crossed Bellandi's face.
"Then perhaps you have learned something from your father."
Alessio remained where he was.
"Tell me about the shooting."
Bellandi's expression grew thoughtful.
"Your father was a difficult man to negotiate with."
"He refused to cooperate with you."
"He refused to understand that some arrangements were necessary."
"Necessary for whom?"
Bellandi sighed.
"Your father believed that every wrongdoing could be corrected if the right people were confronted. He was intelligent enough to understand the danger, but too proud to accept it."
Alessio felt anger rise.
"You arranged the fire."
Bellandi did not answer directly.
"The shipment was supposed to disappear. The warehouse was supposed to be cleared. Nobody was meant to die."
"But Giovanni Romano was permanently injured."
"An unfortunate consequence."
Alessio's hands tightened.
"An unfortunate consequence?"
Bellandi looked at him.
"Do not pretend that you have never made a decision that harmed someone who was not your intended target."
The accusation struck close enough to hurt.
Alessio had spent years making decisions within a violent organization. He had justified actions that he would never have accepted in another man's hands.
Bellandi knew that.
He was attempting to turn Alessio's own history into a shield for his conduct.
"There is a difference between acknowledging responsibility and using other people's suffering as an excuse," Alessio replied.
Bellandi leaned back.
"Your father understood that difference. It nearly destroyed him."
"Who shot him?"
Bellandi's expression changed slightly.
"Ask Enzo."
"I have."
"And?"
"He told me what he knew."
Bellandi laughed softly.
"Enzo tells people what he believes will allow him to sleep."
Alessio watched him.
"Did Enzo arrange the shooting?"
"No."
"Did he know it was coming?"
Bellandi paused.
"He knew your father was in danger."
The words confirmed what Samuel had said.
Alessio felt something tighten inside his chest.
"Who fired the shots?"
Bellandi reached into his jacket and removed a small envelope.
He placed it on the table.
Inside was a copy of a payment record and a photograph of a man standing beside a dark car.
The man was younger, with dark hair and a narrow face.
Alessio recognized him.
"Rafael Conti."
Bellandi nodded.
Conti had once worked as an enforcer for a rival organization. He had disappeared from the city shortly after Matteo's shooting.
"He was paid through an intermediary," Bellandi explained. "The payment originated with a company connected to your uncle."
Alessio studied the document.
"Who gave the order?"
Bellandi's expression became almost sympathetic.
"That is the question you should have asked years ago."
"Answer it."
"I cannot."
Alessio looked up.
"You brought me here to tell me that you cannot answer the question I asked?"
"I brought you here because I can tell you who paid Conti."
"Who?"
Bellandi smiled faintly.
"Someone who wanted Matteo Moretti silenced. Someone who believed the organization would be safer if your father stopped investigating."
Alessio understood.
"Enzo."
Bellandi spread his hands.
"I did not say that."
"You did not need to."
Bellandi watched him carefully.
"Your uncle was afraid. He believed your father was threatening the family's future. He did not order the shooting, but he helped create the conditions in which it became possible."
Alessio stared at the payment record.
For years, he had believed Enzo's silence was an act of cowardice.
Now he had to consider something worse.
Enzo might have knowingly helped a dangerous man isolate his father, believing that the consequences would remain manageable.
"What do you want in return for this information?" Alessio asked.
Bellandi's smile widened.
"Protection."
"From whom?"
"The investigators. The people who will be eager to blame me for everything. The people who will use these documents to destroy my businesses and seize my assets."
"You want me to help you escape responsibility."
"I want a fair arrangement."
"You want immunity."
Bellandi's expression hardened.
"I want to survive."
Alessio looked at him.
"So did Giovanni Romano."
For the first time, Bellandi appeared genuinely irritated.
"Do not compare yourself to that man."
"Why? Because he was honest?"
"Because he was insignificant."
Alessio's face went still.
Bellandi had revealed more than he intended.
He had spent years assuming that the lives of ordinary workers were less important than the stability of his operations.
He had mistaken a person's lack of influence for a lack of value.
Alessio understood the temptation.
He had built his own world around hierarchies of power, and he had often measured people by what they could offer him.
Isabella had challenged that habit from the first evening they met.
Now the truth about Giovanni forced him to confront it directly.
"You will give the investigators everything you have," Alessio said.
Bellandi laughed.
"Or what?"
"Or you will discover that I am no longer interested in protecting the arrangements that made you powerful."
Bellandi's smile disappeared.
"You would destroy your own family?"
"If necessary."
The words surprised Alessio as much as they surprised Bellandi.
He had not planned to say them.
But once spoken, they felt true.
Bellandi studied him.
"You have changed."
"Perhaps."
"Because of the woman?"
Alessio's expression hardened.
"Do not speak about her."
Bellandi smiled again, slowly.
"There it is."
"What?"
"The weakness."
Alessio looked at him.
"You believe loving someone makes a man vulnerable because you have never understood what it means to care about anyone without trying to own them."
Bellandi's face tightened.
For a moment, neither spoke.
Then a sound came from the front of the restaurant.
A car door slammed.
Marco's voice sounded through Alessio's earpiece.
"Don, we have movement outside. Leave now."
Alessio turned toward the entrance.
Bellandi stood.
"Already?"
Alessio ignored him.
Marco entered with 2 security officers.
They moved toward the exit, but the front windows suddenly shattered.
Someone had fired from the street.
The sound was deafening.
Alessio dropped his head and pulled his wheelchair toward the nearest concrete pillar.
Marco moved between him and the windows.
A second shot struck the wall.
Bellandi shouted and fell behind a table.
The security team returned fire only when they had identified the direction of the attack and found cover.
Alessio's pulse hammered.
He heard Marco calling for assistance.
Then he noticed Bellandi crawling toward a side corridor.
The man was trying to escape.
For a moment, Alessio considered letting him go.
Bellandi had caused the fire, concealed evidence, and helped turn the Moretti family against itself.
But the investigators needed him alive.
Alessio reached for his phone.
"Side exit," he told Marco. "He is moving toward the kitchen."
Marco nodded and signaled to the team.
Within seconds, the corridor was secured.
Bellandi was stopped before he reached the rear door.
The shooting outside ended as quickly as it had begun.
The attackers escaped in a vehicle before the security team could identify them.
Nobody inside the restaurant had been seriously injured.
Alessio's hands were shaking.
He looked down at them, surprised by the intensity of his reaction.
He had faced violence many times.
But something about this attack felt different.
It had occurred while he was pursuing the truth, not protecting an operation or defending his authority.
For the first time, he wondered whether he had spent so many years learning how to survive danger that he had forgotten how to live beyond it.
When he returned to the estate, Isabella was waiting in the study.
She had been informed of the shooting.
She did not ask for details immediately.
She crossed the room and knelt beside his wheelchair.
"Are you hurt?"
"No."
"Your leg?"
"Unchanged."
"Your back?"
"Sore."
She examined his face.
He looked exhausted.
She placed her hand against his cheek.
"You came back."
He closed his eyes briefly.
"Yes."
She leaned forward and rested her forehead against his.
For several moments, neither spoke.
Then Alessio said something she had never expected to hear.
"I was frightened."
Isabella drew back slightly.
He looked almost embarrassed.
"Not because I thought I would die," he continued. "Because I realized how much I wanted to come home."
Her eyes filled.
"That is not something to be ashamed of."
"I know."
He swallowed.
"I have spent years pretending that nothing can frighten me. It seemed easier than allowing people to know what they could take from me."
She took his hand.
"And now?"
"Now I know that pretending not to be afraid does not make the people I love any safer."
Isabella squeezed his fingers.
"That is a beginning."
He looked at her.
"I need your help."
The words were quiet.
They were also the most difficult request he had made since she first knelt beside his brace.
She did not answer immediately.
Instead, she asked, "With what?"
"Learning how to live without treating every problem like a battle I have to win alone."
Isabella felt tears gather in her eyes.
She had wanted him to trust her, but she had never wanted him to become helpless.
What he was offering was not surrender.
It was an acknowledgment that partnership required more than protection.
"I can help you with that," she said. "But you have to let me tell you when you are wrong."
He gave a tired smile.
"That condition seems excessive."
"It is nonnegotiable."
He laughed softly.
Then he reached for her hand and held it against his chest.
May you like
For the first time, Alessio Moretti asked for help without pretending that the request cost him nothing.
And Isabella understood that the moment was more intimate than any declaration of love he could have offered.
