Chapter 10 - THE LOCKED WOODEN BOX
Three peaceful months passed at the Moretti estate.
The autumn leaves had turned to brilliant shades of gold and crimson, scattering across the manicured lawns. Inside the house, the air felt lighter. Isabella was thriving, spending her afternoons in the greenhouse with Evelyn, learning the names of flowers she had only ever read about in the Boston library.
I had taken over the management of the estate’s charitable foundations, redirecting the wealth Arthur Bellamy had hoarded into community grants. I had a purpose, a name, and a family.
But true peace is a fragile thing.
It was a Tuesday afternoon when the heavy brass knocker on the front door echoed through the foyer.
I opened it to find an elderly man in a faded postal uniform. He looked exhausted, holding a small, weathered wooden box wrapped in brown twine.
“Delivery for Lorenzo Moretti,” the man said, his voice raspy. “Requires a direct signature.”
I signed for it and carried the box into Lorenzo’s study.
Lorenzo was sitting at his massive oak desk, reviewing legal files. He looked up, his dark eyes softening instantly when he saw me.
“What do you have there, Clara?” he asked, setting his pen down.
“A package arrived for you,” I said, placing it on the desk. “It looks old.”
Lorenzo frowned. He pulled a silver letter opener from his drawer and sliced the twine.
He lifted the lid.
Inside the box rested a single, tarnished brass key. And beneath it was a folded piece of heavy parchment paper.
Lorenzo unfolded the paper.
I watched as his face went completely blank, the relaxed demeanor he had cultivated over the last three months vanishing in an instant.
“Lorenzo?” I asked, stepping closer. “What is it?”
He didn't answer. He handed me the paper.
The handwriting was jagged and frantic, written in dark, dried ink.
Lorenzo. If you are reading this, I am already dead. Arthur Bellamy was only a soldier. The man who ordered Isabella’s kidnapping, the man who wanted your father broken… he is still inside the family. Use the key. Find the ledger in the vault at the old shipyard. Do not trust the council.
It was signed at the bottom.
Vincenzo Moretti. November 13, 1998.
My father.
My heart slammed against my ribs. He had written this the day before he was murdered on his way to the train station.
“My father wrote this,” I breathed, staring at the signature. “He knew Bellamy wasn't the mastermind.”
Lorenzo picked up the tarnished brass key, his jaw tight.
“For twenty-five years, I thought we cut the rot out of this family,” Lorenzo said, his voice a dangerous rumble. “But the head of the snake is still breathing.”
“Who is the council?” I asked, terrified of the answer.
“The Five Elders,” Lorenzo said, standing up and grabbing his coat. “My father’s oldest friends. The men who advised him, and the men who advise me now.”
He looked at me, his eyes burning with a dark fire.
May you like
“One of them betrayed us. And tonight, I’m going to find out who.”
But before we could move toward the door, the study phone began to ring.
