PART 2.
“She said when wedding happens, everything changes.”
“He won’t see it.”
“Did she say my name?”
Amara nodded.
“Alessandro.”
“Then she saw me.”
“Fake.”
The single word followed Alessandro Rienzi back into the ballroom like a shadow.
Nothing had visibly changed.
Sixty guests still glittered beneath the Murano chandeliers.
The quartet still played near the veranda.
Crystal flutes chimed.
Judges, financiers, surgeons, senators, old-money heirs, and men whose fortunes could not survive serious investigation laughed beneath ceilings painted two centuries before any of them were born.
Genevieve Ashworth still looked like the most beautiful woman in the room.
But Alessandro no longer saw the woman he had intended to marry.
He saw a question.
And questions were dangerous things in the Rienzi family.
Genevieve noticed him approaching.
“There you are.”
She detached herself from Silvio with effortless grace and slipped one hand beneath Alessandro’s arm.
“You vanished.”
“Amara wanted to show me the fountain.”
“The housekeeper’s little girl?”
“Yes.”
Genevieve smiled.
Warm.
Amused.
Perfect.
“Adorable child.”
Alessandro studied her face.
Not too intently.
Not long enough to alert her.
“Is she?”
Genevieve looked up at him.
“Is something wrong?”
“Nothing.”
“Your nothing face is different from your actual nothing face.”
That almost made him smile.
Almost.
Sixteen months together had taught her many things about him.
Apparently not enough.
Before Alessandro could answer, his uncle Silvio raised his champagne glass.
“A toast!”
Conversation softened.
Silvio Rienzi stood near the center of the ballroom, silver-haired and broad-chested despite his sixty-eight years, wearing the satisfied expression of a man who considered himself partly responsible for every good thing that happened within twenty miles.
“To my nephew,” he announced, “who spent thirty-eight years terrifying the women of Chicago by refusing to marry any of them.”
Laughter rippled through the room.
Alessandro raised one eyebrow.
“And to Genevieve,” Silvio continued, “who apparently accomplished what the rest of civilization could not.”
More laughter.
Genevieve squeezed Alessandro’s arm.
Silvio lifted his glass higher.
“To peace between families, to new beginnings, and to the future Mrs.
Rienzi.”
Everyone drank.
Alessandro did not.
His gaze dropped to Genevieve’s ivory evening clutch.
Small.
Italian leather.
Gold clasp.
The burner phone Amara had supposedly overheard would fit easily inside.
Genevieve noticed him looking.
“You hate the bag?”
“What?”
“You’re staring at it.”
Alessandro lifted his eyes.
“I was thinking.”
“That usually means somebody loses money.”
“Only money?”
Her smile faltered for half a heartbeat.
Then she laughed.
“You’re strange tonight.”
“Engagement nerves.”
“You?”
She leaned closer.
“Alessandro Rienzi doesn’t get nervous.”
He brought her knuckles to his lips.
“Everyone gets nervous about something.”
Across the room, Dante Moretti appeared near the library doors.
He did not signal.
He did not need to.
Alessandro excused himself five minutes later under the pretense of taking a call from a shipping attorney in Rotterdam.
Genevieve watched him leave.
He felt her gaze between his shoulder blades until the doors closed.
His private study occupied the oldest section of the estate, where nineteenth-century stone walls had been reinforced around a modern security core.
No cameras inside.
No microphones.
No windows facing public grounds.
Dante was already waiting.
At forty-two, Dante Moretti had the compact build and expressionless face of a man accustomed to noticing exits before furniture.
He placed a tablet on Alessandro’s desk.
“We have a problem.”
Alessandro removed his jacket.
“What kind?”
“The kind where I need you not to shoot anybody until I finish talking.”
Alessandro looked at him.
Dante exhaled.
“Bad phrasing.”
“Continue.”
“We pulled western corridor footage.”
He touched the tablet.
A silent video appeared.
Timestamp: 8:14 p.m.
Genevieve stepped into the western gallery alone.
She looked behind her.
Then entered the rarely used music room.
8:15.
Amara wandered into view carrying her gray lamb.
The child paused outside the half-open door.
8:17.
Genevieve emerged.
Her face was different.
Not smiling.
Not composed.
Cold.
She spotted Amara.
Stopped.
Then transformed instantly into the luminous woman Alessandro knew.
Even on silent footage, the change was disturbing.
Amara backed away.
Genevieve crouched.
Said something.
Touched the child’s cheek.
Then walked toward the ballroom.
Alessandro’s jaw tightened.
“What did she say to Amara?”
“No audio in that corridor.”
“The phone?”
Dante hesitated.
“That’s the second problem.”
“Which is?”
“There is no burner in Genevieve’s clutch.”
Alessandro’s eyes hardened.
“You searched it?”
“Indirectly.
One of our female security staff bumped her near the powder room.
Clutch opened.
Contents photographed.”
Dante slid across another image.
Lipstick.
Compact.
Cards.
One key.
No phone.
“So Amara invented it.”
“Maybe.”
Dante’s tone made clear he didn’t believe that.
“Or Genevieve moved it.”
“Where?”
Dante swiped again.
“Exactly.”
A grainy exterior feed appeared.
Twenty minutes before the gala began, Genevieve stood near the west garden wall.
A man wearing catering whites approached from the service drive.
They spoke for eleven seconds.
Genevieve handed him something small.
He disappeared behind the greenhouse.
“Who is he?”
“We don’t know.”
Alessandro looked up sharply.
Dante rarely said those words.
“You vetted the catering staff.”
“I vetted everyone on the final list.”
“And he wasn’t on it.”
“No.”
“Then how did he enter my property?”
Dante’s expression remained controlled.
“Using a valid security credential.”
Silence thickened between them.
“Whose?”
Dante placed a printed access log on the desk.
Alessandro read the name.
Once.
Then again.
FATIMA OKAFOR.
His gaze lifted.
“Amara’s mother.”
“Yes.”
“Where is she?”
“In the kitchen with the girl.”
“Bring her.”
“Boss—”
“Now.”
Dante turned toward the door.
“And Dante.”
He stopped.
“Do not frighten the child.”
Five minutes later Fatima entered alone.
Her face had lost all color.
She remained standing just inside the door.
“Mr.
Rienzi?”
Alessandro gestured toward the chair.
“Sit.”
She obeyed.
Dante stayed behind her.
Alessandro placed the security log on the desk.
“Your credential was used at 6:41 this evening to admit an unauthorized man.”
Fatima stared at the paper.
“I don’t understand.”
“Neither do I.”
“I didn’t admit anyone.”
“Where was your access card?”
“With me.”
“Are you certain?”
“Yes.”
Her hand moved reflexively toward the pocket of her black service uniform.
She froze.
Slowly, she checked it.
Empty.
Fatima’s breathing changed.
“No.”
“When did you last have it?”
“This afternoon.
Before setup.”
“Who had access to your things?”
“I kept my handbag in the staff lockers.”
“Locked?”
She swallowed.
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because I’ve worked here seven months and nobody has ever stolen from me.”
Alessandro leaned back.
Fatima looked directly at him.
Fear was there.
But so was anger.
“You think I brought someone into your house?”
“I think somebody used your identity.”
Her anger disappeared.
That frightened her more.
“Amara,” she whispered.
“What about her?”
“If someone went through my things…”
“She’s safe.”
Fatima closed her eyes briefly.
Then she opened them.
“There’s something else.”
Alessandro said nothing.
Fatima twisted her fingers.
“Last week a woman came to the house.”
“What woman?”
“She said she worked for Miss Ashworth.”
“Name?”
“I don’t remember.
Claire.
Clara.
Something like that.”
“Why was she here?”
“She asked questions about staff schedules.
Said it was for wedding planning.”
Dante and Alessandro exchanged a glance.
“What kind of questions?”
“When the kitchen changed shifts.
Which corridors were busiest.
Whether Amara stayed with me during evenings.”
Alessandro’s face went very still.
“And you answered?”
“She had Genevieve’s stationery.”
“Stationery can be stolen.”
“I know that now.”
“What did she look like?”
Fatima described her.
Thirtyish.
Blonde.
Tall.
Blue coat.
Small scar near the left eyebrow.
Dante was already typing into his phone.
Fatima suddenly leaned forward.
“Mr.
Rienzi, please.
Whatever this is, Amara has nothing to do with it.”
“I know.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I do.”
“How?”
“Because someone who plans betrayal carefully does not send a three-year-old to deliver the warning.”
Fatima stared at him.
“You know what she told me when I found her?”
“What?”
“She said Miss Genevieve was going to make you disappear.”
The room became silent.
Alessandro’s eyes narrowed.
“She said those exact words?”
“No.
She said…” Fatima fought to remember.
“‘Pretty lady said he goes away after bells.’”
“Bells?”
“Wedding bells?”
Dante offered.
Alessandro rose.
“Where is Amara now?”
“Kitchen.”
“No.”
Dante checked his phone.
His expression changed.
“Boss.”
One word.
Too sharp.
Alessandro turned.
Dante was already moving toward the door.
“Camera feed from the kitchen just went down.”
They ran.
Not walked.
Ran.
The ballroom guests saw only flashes: Alessandro cutting through the celebration, Dante behind him, three security men suddenly abandoning their positions.
Genevieve called his name.
He ignored her.
The service hallway was empty.
Kitchen doors swung open.
A chef stood near the ovens.
Two servers were carrying trays.
Fatima pushed past Alessandro.
“Amara!”
No answer.
“Amara!”
The gray stuffed lamb lay beneath a prep table.
Fatima screamed.
Alessandro picked it up.
Still warm.
“Lock the estate.”
Dante touched his earpiece.
“All gates closed.
Nobody leaves.”
“The grounds?”
“Teams moving.”
Fatima grabbed Alessandro’s sleeve.
“You promised she was safe.”
The accusation landed harder than shouting.
Alessandro handed her the lamb.
“I’m bringing her back.”
Genevieve appeared in the doorway.
“What happened?”
Nobody answered.
Her eyes fell on the toy in Fatima’s hands.
Understanding crossed her face.
“Oh my God.”
Alessandro watched closely.
If it was an act, it was flawless.
“Amara’s missing,” he said.
Genevieve covered her mouth.
“When?”
“Minutes ago.”
“Call the police.”
Dante looked at Alessandro.
Genevieve caught it.
“What?”
Alessandro stepped toward her.
“Give me your clutch.”
She blinked.
“What?”
“Your bag.”
“Why?”
“Genevieve.”
Something changed in her posture.
Not guilt.
Recognition.
“You think I did something.”
“Give me the bag.”
Her face hardened.
“In front of your staff?”
“Now.”
For several seconds, neither moved.
Then Genevieve held out the clutch.
Alessandro opened it.
Lipstick.
Compact.
Cards.
Key.
Nothing else.
“You’re looking for the phone,” she said.
Alessandro met her eyes.
“What phone?”
Genevieve laughed once.
But there was no humor in it.
“The one you had Dante tap twenty minutes ago.”
Dante’s right hand moved beneath his jacket.
Genevieve noticed.
“Please don’t be theatrical, Dante.”
Alessandro’s voice lowered.
“How did you know?”
“Because your security system isn’t as invisible as you think.”
“And neither are you.”
“No.”
Her answer surprised him.
“No, I’m not.”
Fatima stared between them.
“Where is my daughter?”
Genevieve turned toward her.
“I don’t know.”
“You were talking about Alessandro tonight.”
Genevieve froze.
Alessandro stepped closer.
“Amara heard you.”
Now Genevieve understood.
The child.
The music room.
The fake smile.
Her eyes shut briefly.
When she opened them, fear had replaced offense.
“Alessandro, we need to leave.”
He almost laughed.
“Interesting timing.”
“I mean it.”
“So do I.”
Genevieve reached for his arm.
“You don’t understand.”
“Then explain.”
“Not here.”
“Here is exactly where you explain.”
She looked at Dante.
Then Fatima.
Then at the ceiling cameras.
“We’re already too late.”
The lights went out.
Every chandelier.
Every corridor fixture.
Every garden lamp.
Darkness swallowed the estate.
Somebody screamed from the ballroom.
Then emergency lighting flashed red.
Dante shouted orders through his radio.
Nothing answered.
“Comms are dead.”
A distant explosion shook the windows.
Not large.
Controlled.
Near the east gate.
Guests began shouting.
Alessandro grabbed Genevieve by the wrist.
“You knew.”
“I suspected.”
“What?”
She pulled him closer.
“Your wedding isn’t the target.”
Another explosion.
Closer.
“The Rienzi succession is.”
Alessandro stared at her.
“What succession?”
She looked genuinely terrified now.
“Yours.”
Gunfire cracked from outside.
Fatima cried out.
Dante drew his weapon.
Security personnel rushed toward the terrace.
Through the windows, dark figures moved across the garden.
Professional spacing.
Suppressors.
Night optics.
Not thieves.
Not rivals improvising revenge.
A trained team.
Alessandro’s entire demeanor changed.
The suspicious fiancé disappeared.
In his place stood the man who had inherited a criminal empire and survived long enough to turn it legitimate without becoming harmless.
“Basement corridor,” he ordered.
“Move the guests through the wine vault.
Secondary tunnel exits at the boathouse.”
Dante nodded.
“Your uncle?”
“Find him.”
Genevieve seized Alessandro’s lapel.
“Do not send anyone to the boathouse.”
“Why?”
“That’s where they expect you to go.”
“How do you know?”
Her silence answered too much.
Alessandro’s eyes darkened.
“You knew about tonight.”
“I knew something was coming.”
“And said nothing.”
“I was trying to find out who was behind it.”
Gunfire shattered a window.
Guests screamed.
Alessandro pulled Genevieve behind a stone pillar as glass sprayed across the floor.
“You had sixteen months.”
“I had sixteen months because I was investigating you.”
He stared at her.
“What?”
“My father didn’t introduce us by accident.”
“Genevieve.”
“I’m not working for my father.”
“Then who?”
A man staggered into the corridor.
One of Alessandro’s guards.
Blood soaked his sleeve.
“They breached the west garden.”
“How many?”
“At least eight.”
“Amara?”
The guard looked confused.
“Who?”
“The child.”
“No sighting.”
Genevieve suddenly turned.
“The west garden.”
“What?”
“That’s where I met the courier.”
Dante looked at her.
“The catering man?”
“Yes.”
Alessandro’s voice became dangerously quiet.
“You handed him your phone.”
“Yes.”
“Who was he?”
“I don’t know.”
“You handed a stranger a burner phone?”
“He was supposed to take it to someone who could trace the person calling me.”
“Who was calling you?”
Genevieve hesitated.
Then said the name.
“Marco Bellandi.”
Dante went rigid.
Alessandro did not move at all.
Marco Bellandi had been dead for six years.
Alessandro had attended the funeral.
Seen the body.
Placed a rose on the coffin.
Marco had been his closest friend.
And the one man accused of arranging the assassination attempt that killed Alessandro’s younger brother.
“You’re lying.”
“I wish I were.”
“Marco is dead.”
“Someone using his voice has called me four times.”
“Voice synthesis.”
“I thought so too.”
“Then why hide it?”
“Because he knew things.”
“What things?”
Genevieve’s expression changed.
“Things only Marco and you would know.”
Alessandro’s throat tightened.
“Such as?”
“The chapel in Bellagio.”
He said nothing.
“The red bicycle.”
Dante looked between them.
Genevieve continued.
“And what your brother said to you in the hospital before he died.”
Alessandro grabbed her by the upper arm.
“Stop.”
“He said you’d understand when I told you one sentence.”
“What sentence?”
Genevieve whispered:
“‘The saint never drowned.’”
Alessandro released her.
For the first time that night, genuine shock broke through his composure.
Dante saw it.
“What does that mean?”
Alessandro did not answer.
Because only three people had ever heard those words.
Alessandro.
His brother Luca.
And Marco.
A noise came from the pantry.
Small.
A scrape.
Fatima spun around.
“Amara?”
They moved toward the sound.
Dante raised his weapon.
Alessandro opened the pantry door.
Empty shelves.
Wine crates.
Then a faint whimper.
Behind stacked sacks of flour, a tiny figure crawled out.
“Mommy?”
Fatima collapsed to her knees.
“Amara!”
She pulled her daughter into her arms, sobbing so hard she could barely breathe.
The child still had gelato on her dress.
Alessandro crouched.
“Who put you here?”
Amara pointed.
“Nice man.”
“What nice man?”
“He said hide.”
“Did you see his face?”
She nodded.
“Do you know him?”
Another nod.
Everyone went still.
Fatima wiped tears from her daughter’s cheeks.
“Sweetheart, who was it?”
Amara looked past her mother.
Straight toward Alessandro.
“Picture man.”
He frowned.
“What picture?”
Amara pointed toward the main hall.
“The man on the wall.”
Alessandro stood.
There were dozens of portraits in the estate.
But only one hung in the main hall beside the staircase.
A younger Alessandro stood in the painting with Luca and Marco at a charity regatta fifteen years earlier.
Dante understood first.
“No.”
Alessandro was already moving.
They crossed the service corridor into the main hall.
Emergency lights cast everything in blood-red shadows.
The portrait remained on the wall.
Three young men frozen beneath a summer sky.
Luca smiling.
Alessandro unsmiling.
Marco laughing at someone outside the frame.
Amara pointed.
“That man.”
Her finger landed on Marco.
Genevieve went pale.
Dante said, “Impossible.”
A speaker crackled somewhere overhead.
Not part of the estate’s normal system.
Static filled the hall.
Then a man’s voice.
Warm.
Familiar.
Older than Alessandro remembered, but unmistakable.
“Still impossible, Sandro?”
Alessandro stopped breathing.
Genevieve whispered, “That’s the voice.”
Dante lifted his gun toward the balcony.
Nothing.
The speaker crackled again.
“I expected better security.”
Alessandro’s face became stone.
“Marco.”
A soft laugh came through the system.
“There he is.”
“Where are you?”
“Close.”
“Why are you here?”
“To finish something.”
“You tried that six years ago.”
“No.”
The answer came instantly.
“That’s the first lie you were taught.”
Alessandro looked at Genevieve.
She shook her head.
The voice continued.
“You think tonight is an attack on you.
You think your beautiful fiancée betrayed you.
You think somebody stole Fatima’s credential.
You think the child overheard the wrong conversation at the right time.”
Pause.
“All convenient conclusions.”
Dante scanned the upper floor.
“Show yourself.”
Marco laughed again.
“I always liked you, Dante.”
“Funny.
I buried you.”
“You buried someone.”
That silenced him.
Fatima hugged Amara tighter.
Alessandro stepped toward the center of the hall.
“What do you want?”
“The truth.”
“I don’t collect riddles.”
“No.
Your father did.”
At the mention of Vittorio Rienzi, Alessandro’s expression sharpened.
His father had been dead for five years.
Marco’s voice lowered.
“Before Vittorio Rienzi died, he hid something inside this house.”
“What?”
“A ledger.”
Dante muttered a curse.
Not financial.
In their world, a ledger could topple judges, corporations, families.
Marco continued.
“Names.
Payments. murders.
Elections.
Ports.
Intelligence contacts.
Forty years of sins.”
Alessandro’s gaze drifted toward his uncle Silvio.
Except Silvio was not there.
He should have been.
“Where is my uncle?”
Silence.
Then Marco said:
“Now you’re finally asking the right question.”
Alessandro turned to Dante.
“Find Silvio.”
Dante called two men.
No response.
A third answered.
Then shouted.
The line cut dead.
Genevieve whispered, “Alessandro…”
Footsteps sounded above them.
Slow.
Unhurried.
Everyone looked toward the staircase.
A man appeared at the top.
Not Marco.
Silvio.
Alessandro’s uncle descended one step at a time.
His tuxedo jacket was gone.
His white shirt sleeves were rolled neatly to the forearms.
There was blood on his cuff.
Dante raised his weapon.
Silvio smiled.
“Careful.”
Two armed men emerged behind him.
Then four more.
Alessandro stared at his uncle.
“You.”
Silvio sighed.
“Eventually.”
“You let them into my house.”
“My house before it was yours.”
“You used Fatima’s credential.”
Silvio glanced at Amara.
“An unfortunate necessity.”
Fatima stepped protectively in front of her daughter.
Alessandro moved half a step.
Silvio immediately raised one hand.
“Don’t.”
A red laser appeared on Alessandro’s chest.
Then another on Dante.
Then Genevieve.
Snipers.
Inside his own home.
Silvio looked almost regretful.
“I hoped you would marry first.”
Genevieve stared at him.
“Why?”
“Because then everything really would change.”
Amara had remembered correctly.
But not the speaker.
Genevieve slowly turned toward the child.
“You heard him?”
Amara nodded uncertainly.
The girl had not overheard Genevieve threatening Alessandro.
She had heard Genevieve repeating Silvio’s words on the phone.
Warning someone.
Alessandro understood.
The entire structure of suspicion collapsed and rebuilt itself in an instant.
He looked at Genevieve.
“You were trying to warn someone about Silvio.”
“Yes.”
“Who?”
Before she could answer, Marco’s voice returned through the speakers.
“Me.”
Silvio’s smile disappeared.
For the first time all night, the old man looked frightened.
“Turn that system off.”
Nobody moved.
Marco laughed softly.
“There you are, Uncle.”
Alessandro’s eyes narrowed.
Uncle?
Silvio’s face changed.
Not surprise.
Recognition.
Alessandro looked from the speaker to Silvio.
“What did he call you?”
Silvio said nothing.
Marco answered.
“Did nobody ever tell you?”
“Tell me what?”
“Marco,” Silvio warned.
But the voice continued.
“Your father wasn’t the only Rienzi with sons.”
Alessandro stared at his uncle.
Silvio’s jaw clenched.
“No.”
Dante looked confused.
Genevieve looked horrified.
And Alessandro finally understood the impossible implication.
Marco Bellandi had never been Marco Bellandi.
The dead traitor.
The childhood friend.
The man who had known the family’s private words.
The man Alessandro had trusted beside his own brother.
Was a Rienzi.
Silvio’s son.
Alessandro’s cousin.
A secret hidden in plain sight for decades.
“You knew,” Alessandro said to Silvio.
Silvio’s silence confirmed it.
Marco’s voice softened.
“He knew everything.”
“Why fake your death?”
“Because your father ordered the wrong man buried.”
“Who?”
Silence.
Then Marco spoke five words that seemed to drain the air from the house.
“Ask who killed your brother.”
Alessandro looked at Silvio.
Silvio looked away.
Genevieve inhaled sharply.
“No,” Alessandro said.
Silvio’s eyes closed.
“Luca’s death wasn’t Marco’s doing,” Genevieve whispered.
Alessandro turned to her.
“How long have you known?”
“Three weeks.”
“And you said nothing.”
“I needed proof.”
“You were going to marry me while investigating my family?”
“I was going to marry you because I love you.”
Her voice cracked for the first time.
“And I was investigating your family because someone inside it murdered your brother and blamed Marco.”
Alessandro stared at her.
Sixteen months of shared mornings, private dinners, arguments, laughter, secrets.
How much had been real?
Perhaps all of it.
Perhaps none.
Before he could speak, Amara tugged Fatima’s dress.
“Mommy.”
“Not now, baby.”
“Mommy.”
“What?”
Amara pointed upstairs.
A shadow moved behind the balcony columns.
A man stepped into view.
Tall.
Dark suit.
Older.
A pale scar through his right eyebrow.
Alessandro knew the face before his mind accepted it.
Marco.
Alive.
Not a voice.
Not an imitation.
Flesh.
Blood.
Breathing.
Silvio raised his gun.
Marco raised his own.
Father and son stared across the hall.
“Hello, Sandro,” Marco said.
Alessandro’s pulse thundered.
“You’re alive.”
“Unfortunately for several people.”
Silvio’s weapon trembled.
“Marco, don’t.”
“Why?”
“You don’t understand what Vittorio started.”
“No.
I understand perfectly.”
Marco descended one step.
Then another.
“You spent six years protecting the lie.”
Silvio shook his head.
“I was protecting this family.”
“From what?”
Marco looked directly at Alessandro.
“From him finding out he was never supposed to inherit it.”
No one moved.
Alessandro’s voice came out low.
“What are you talking about?”
Marco reached inside his jacket.
Dante aimed.
“Slowly.”
Marco withdrew a sealed plastic envelope.
Inside was an old document.
A birth certificate.
He tossed it down the stairs.
The envelope slid across the marble and stopped near Alessandro’s shoes.
He picked it up.
Read the name.
Read the date.
Read the father.
And for the first time that night, Alessandro Rienzi lost complete control of his expression.
Because beneath the line marked FATHER was not Vittorio Rienzi.
It was another name.
A name Alessandro had spent his entire adult life believing belonged to an enemy.
Genevieve whispered, “Alessandro…”
He looked up.
Marco was watching him.
Silvio was watching him.
Even Dante had gone pale.
And outside, beyond the shattered windows, police sirens finally began to rise in the distance.
Marco smiled without warmth.
“Now you understand why your father wanted that ledger hidden.”
Alessandro looked again at the document.
His hands had begun to shake.
“Who am I?”
Marco’s answer was almost gentle.
“That depends on whether you believe the man who raised you…”
He raised his pistol toward Silvio.
“…or the man who murdered him.”
A gunshot exploded through the hall.
Genevieve screamed.
The lights went black again.
And somewhere in the darkness, a man began to laugh.
…If you want to know what happened next, please type “YES” and like for more.
READ FULL PART 2:
FULL STORY: THE RIENZI SECRET – PT04
Source: Stories of Destiny · Thao Thao
