Chapter 11
A vault my father claimed had been sealed before Elena disappeared.
“Where did you get this?” I asked.
“Mom gave it to me on my sixth birthday.”
I looked at Isabella.
“Elena left instructions,” she admitted. “She said Lily should receive it when she turned six.”
“Why six?”
“She said that by then, either the danger would be over—or no one would be able to stop what was coming.”
I took the key carefully.
On the back, almost invisible beneath years of tarnish, was a number.
317.
Vault compartment 317.
I had seen it once as a teenager.
My father discovered me near the entrance and beat me badly enough that I could not walk for three days.
He told me some doors were meant to remain closed because opening them would destroy everyone we loved.
Until that moment, I assumed he had been protecting the family.
Now I understood he had been protecting himself.
My phone rang.
The caller was Sofia.
I answered without speaking.
“Alessandro,” she said, her voice smooth and familiar. “We need to talk.”
“You had your chance.”
“I know you’re angry.”
“You don’t know anything about my anger.”
A pause.
Then she laughed softly.
The sound was nothing like the woman who had cried in the nursery.
“You found Isabella.”
Across the room, Isabella held Lily’s shoulders.
“I found my niece.”
Another pause.
“You always were faster than Vittorio expected.”
Hearing my father’s name from Sofia’s mouth erased the last possibility that Isabella was lying.
“Where is he?”
“Closer than you think.”
“Put him on the phone.”
“You’re not in a position to make demands.”
“I could have every member of your family removed from the city before sunset.”
“You could,” she replied calmly. “But then you would never learn why Elena chose Isabella instead of you.”
My eyes moved toward the woman across the room.
“What does that mean?”
“Ask her who fired the third shot in the alley.”
The call ended.
I slowly lowered the phone.
Isabella had heard every word.
Her face carried an expression I had seen on men moments before execution.
Not fear of death.
Fear of judgment.
“What did she mean?” I asked.
Lily’s small voice broke the silence.
“Mom?”
Isabella knelt in front of her daughter.
“Sweetheart, I need you to wait outside with Mr. Moretti’s guards.”
“No.”
“They’ll protect you.”
“I want to stay with you.”
Isabella kissed her forehead.
“I’ll be right here.”
Lily looked at me.
“Promise?”
My throat tightened.
“I promise.”
One of my guards escorted her into the hallway. She kept looking back until the door closed.
Then Isabella turned to face me.
“The men in the alley fired twice,” she said. “One bullet struck your shoulder. The second went through your side.”
“I remember three shots.”
“Yes.”
“Who fired the third?”
“I did.”
I stared at her.
She removed a small scarred pistol from beneath her maid’s apron and placed it on the table.
My guards would have searched any other person before allowing them near me.
But Isabella had entered the restaurant beside Lily, and I had ordered my men not to frighten them.
“You shot me?”
“No.”
“Then who?”
“The man standing behind you.”
A memory flickered.
Rain.
Footsteps.
A voice ordering someone to finish the job.
Then a gunshot close to my ear.
“You killed one of the attackers.”
“I wounded him. He escaped.”
“Who was he?”
“I didn’t see his face clearly.”
“But Elena did,” Isabella said. “She arrived minutes later.”
“Elena was there?”
“She had followed the men from your father’s house.”
My pulse pounded.
May you like
“What did she tell you?”
“That the wounded man was Sofia’s father.”
