PART 2.
“Don’t call anyone.”
“Why?”
Her tiny hand began trembling.
“Because that person told me what would happen if I ever told you.”
And just then, from somewhere beyond my bedroom door, a floorboard creaked.
I stared at the doorway.
Lily stopped breathing.
So did I.
The hallway beyond my bedroom was dark except for the thin strip of amber light from the stairwell.
My security system was armed.
The east wing had been cleared an hour ago.
Mrs.
Ricci slept downstairs.
Lily's mother, Claire, had a guest room two doors away.
Nobody should have been standing outside my door.
Another creak.
Closer.
Lily's fingers tightened around my wrist.
“Pretend you're asleep,” she whispered.
I turned toward her.
“What?”
“That's what they wait for.”
There are moments when instinct becomes louder than reason.
Mine told me to reach for the pistol inside the drawer beside my bed.
Instead, I listened to a three-year-old child.
I dimmed the lamp.
Closed my laptop.
Lowered myself against the pillows.
Lily crawled beneath the blanket beside me, her rabbit pressed under her chin.
“Close your eyes,” she whispered.
I did.
Three seconds passed.
Five.
Ten.
The bedroom door moved.
Not enough to make a sound.
Just enough for the air in the room to change.
I kept my breathing slow.
Someone entered.
Soft footsteps crossed the carpet.
One.
Two.
Three.
Then stopped near the foot of my bed.
I could hear Lily breathing beneath the blanket.
Tiny.
Shallow.
Terrified.
A familiar scent reached me.
Bergamot.
Cedar.
The cologne my younger brother had worn since he was nineteen.
My entire body went cold.
Matteo.
For thirty-four years, Matteo Moretti had been many things.
My brother.
My closest friend.
My most trusted adviser.
The only person in the family who could walk into any Moretti property without being searched.
When our father died, Matteo stood beside me at the funeral.
When I took control of the family businesses, he stood behind my chair.
When I was shot in Palermo nine years ago, he donated blood before the hospital even asked.
When my insomnia began three years ago, he was the one who found the first specialist.
The second.
The third.
He had sat beside my hospital bed.
Argued with doctors.
Canceled meetings for me.
Insisted I needed rest.
And now he was standing ten feet away, believing I was asleep.
I heard something click.
A small metallic sound.
Then came the hiss.
Barely audible.
A mist.
I opened my eyes.
Matteo stood beside the ventilation panel near the bed.
He wore dark trousers and a white shirt with the sleeves rolled back.
In his hand was a narrow silver device no larger than a cigar.
He froze.
I sat up.
For several seconds, neither of us spoke.
His face changed first.
Shock.
Calculation.
Then calm.
“Adrian.”
My voice came out quieter than I expected.
“What are you doing?”
Matteo glanced toward the device in his hand.
Then toward Lily.
She had emerged from beneath the blanket.
Her face went white.
“Uncle Matteo,” she whispered.
That word struck me harder than everything else.
Uncle.
Not because he was her uncle.
He wasn't.
Not technically.
Claire Carter had worked for our legal department for five years.
Her husband had died when Lily was six months old.
Matteo had become unusually protective of them after the funeral.
Lily simply called him Uncle Matteo because he had encouraged it.
And suddenly I remembered something she had said earlier.
Someone who shared my blood.
She had meant mine.
Not hers.
Matteo smiled at her.
It was a gentle smile.
Almost affectionate.
“You're supposed to be sleeping, little lion.”
Lily recoiled.
I got out of bed.
“What is that?”
Matteo sighed.
“Adrian—”
“What.
Is.
That?”
His eyes moved toward the door.
I stepped between him and it.
His expression hardened.
“You don't understand.”
“Then explain.”
He looked at Lily again.
“This isn't a conversation for a child.”
“She stays.”
“Adrian.”
“She stays.”
Silence settled over the room.
Then Matteo placed the silver device carefully on my desk.
“Fine.”
I picked it up.
There was no label.
No manufacturer.
Nothing.
“What have you been putting into my room?”
Matteo loosened his jaw.
“A stimulant.”
I stared at him.
“Say that again.”
“Aerosolized stimulant.
Low dose.”
My fingers closed around the device.
“How long?”
His silence answered first.
My chest tightened.
“How long, Matteo?”
“Three years.”
The words seemed to remove all sound from the room.
Three years.
A thousand nights.
Three years of shaking hands.
Three years of headaches.
Three years of staring at ceilings until sunrise.
Three years of swallowing pills that never worked.
Three years of doctors telling me stress was killing me.
I stepped toward him.
“Why?”
Matteo didn't move.
“Because you were impossible to control when you slept properly.”
I actually laughed.
Once.
A hollow sound.
“What?”
“You heard me.”
Lily crawled backward across the bed.
Matteo continued.
“When you're rested, you notice everything.
Missing numbers.
False manifests.
Side companies.
People lying to you.
You ask questions nobody wants you asking.”
My pulse thundered.
“What numbers?”
He ignored the question.
“When you're exhausted, you delegate.”
“To you.”
“Yes.”
The word came easily.
Too easily.
I looked at the brother I had trusted with half my empire.
“How much?”
His expression shifted.
Not guilt.
Something closer to annoyance.
“That isn't important.”
“How much did you steal from me?”
“Nothing.”
“Then what did I delegate?”
Matteo smiled faintly.
“You still think this is about money.”
I moved before I realized I had decided to.
My fist hit his jaw hard enough to send him sideways into the desk.
Lily screamed.
Matteo stumbled, caught himself, and touched his lip.
Blood stained his thumb.
Then he looked at me.
And smiled.
“There you are.”
I grabbed his shirt.
“What did you do?”
He didn't resist.
“That temper.
Father always said it would bury you.”
“Our father trusted you.”
“No.
Father pitied me.”
“Answer me.”
Matteo leaned closer.
“You were never supposed to discover this tonight.”
My blood cooled.
“Discover what?”
His eyes drifted toward Lily.
Something changed in her face.
She jumped off the bed.
“No!”
Matteo moved faster.
His hand went behind his back.
I slammed him against the wall.
A syringe fell from his fingers.
It struck the carpet without breaking.
Lily ran toward me.
I pushed her behind my legs.
Matteo stared at the syringe.
Then at me.
“That,” I said, “was for who?”
He said nothing.
“For Lily?”
Still nothing.
My hands began shaking.
Not from exhaustion.
From rage.
I bent, picked up the syringe, and held it between us.
“What is in this?”
“Adrian.”
“What is in it?”
“A sedative.”
“For a three-year-old?”
“To make her forget.”
Lily began crying behind me.
Something inside me fractured.
I hit Matteo again.
This time he fell.
I was on him before he could rise.
One hand around his throat.
The other drawn back.
For one dangerous second, I intended to kill him.
Then Lily screamed my name.
“Mr.
Moretti!”
I stopped.
Matteo coughed beneath me.
Lily stood several feet away, clutching her rabbit with tears running down her cheeks.
Not because she feared Matteo.
Because she feared me.
I released him.
“Go to your mother,” I said.
She shook her head violently.
“Lily.”
“No.”
“Sweetheart—”
“He'll get her.”
I went still.
Matteo did too.
I turned slowly.
“What did you say?”
Lily pointed at Matteo.
“He already went in Mama's room.”
The room tilted.
I looked down at my brother.
He had stopped smiling.
I ran.
Claire's door was open.
I crossed the hallway in three strides and hit the light.
She lay on the bed.
Motionless.
“Claire.”
No response.
I reached her.
Pressed my fingers to her neck.
Pulse.
Weak but present.
On the nightstand stood a glass of water beside an empty blister pack of sleeping pills.
I grabbed my phone and called the one physician I trusted enough to owe me answers before explanations.
Dr.
Elena Marconi answered on the second ring.
“Adrian?”
“I need you at the house now.”
“What happened?”
“Possible poisoning.”
Her voice sharpened.
“Who?”
“A woman.
Thirty-one.
Unconscious but breathing.”
“Call emergency services.”
“No.”
“Adrian—”
“Too many people know too much already.”
A pause.
“I'll be there in twelve minutes.”
I ended the call.
Lily had followed me.
She climbed onto the bed beside her mother.
“Mama?”
I knelt.
“She's breathing.”
“Is she going to wake up?”
“Yes.”
I had no right to promise.
I promised anyway.
Behind me came a soft sound.
A footstep.
I turned.
Matteo was gone.
I drew my pistol and ran back into the hallway.
Nothing.
The west staircase.
I heard a door below.
I sprinted.
By the time I reached the first floor, the rear entrance stood open.
Rain blew across the marble.
Security lights illuminated an empty driveway.
I called the guardhouse.
No answer.
Called again.
Nothing.
I crossed the courtyard.
The two guards inside were unconscious.
Alive.
Drugged.
Matteo had planned the entire night.
Except Lily.
That was the part he couldn't control.
I returned upstairs.
My phone vibrated.
A message.
Unknown number.
YOU SHOULD HAVE KEPT SLEEPING.
Attached was a photograph.
I opened it.
For a moment, I couldn't understand what I was seeing.
Then I recognized the room.
My father's study.
Twenty years ago.
The photograph showed my father seated behind his desk.
Matteo stood beside him.
So did another man.
A man whose funeral I had attended eleven years ago.
A man who had supposedly died in a boating accident off Sicily.
My uncle Gabriel.
But that wasn't what stopped my breathing.
On the desk between them was a folder.
The Moretti family crest stamped on the cover.
Beneath it were three words.
PROJECT NIGHTFALL — ADRIAN.
My name.
My father had known.
Maybe from the beginning.
I heard Lily behind me.
“Mr.
Moretti?”
I locked the phone.
“Stay with your mother.”
“Are you going somewhere?”
“Yes.”
“Don't.”
I turned.
She stood barefoot in the hall.
“You don't know where he went.”
“No.”
“I do.”
I stared at her.
“How?”
She held out her rabbit.
The gray one with half an ear.
“Because Uncle Matteo gave me Bunny.”
My stomach tightened.
“When?”
“On my birthday.”
She turned the toy over.
At first I saw nothing.
Then a tiny green light flickered beneath the stitching.
A tracker.
Or a microphone.
Maybe both.
I ripped the seam open.
Inside was a black electronic module.
Lily watched me.
“Is Bunny sick?”
“No.”
I removed the device and put the rabbit back into her arms.
“Bunny's fine.”
The module contained a miniature transmitter and a memory card.
Not a tracker.
A recorder.
I inserted the card into my laptop.
Folders appeared.
Hundreds of audio files.
Dates.
Times.
Locations.
Some went back almost two years.
Matteo had been recording Lily.
But why?
I opened the most recent file.
Static.
Claire's voice.
“Matteo, you can't keep coming here.”
Then Matteo.
“You called me.”
“I called because Lily keeps talking about Adrian's room.”
Silence.
Then Claire again.
“She saw you.”
“I know.”
“You told me this was temporary.”
“It was.”
“Three years isn't temporary.”
My body went rigid.
Claire knew.
The recording continued.
“I never agreed to hurt Adrian.”
“You agreed to help me.”
“I agreed to keep Lily safe.”
“And she is safe.”
“Not if she sees what you're doing.”
A long pause.
Then Matteo said quietly:
“You knew what this was from the beginning.”
Claire began crying.
“No.
I knew about the insomnia.
Not about the rest.”
“What rest?”
My own whisper filled the room.
I leaned closer to the laptop.
Matteo answered her.
“Adrian isn't sick because we're keeping him awake.”
Claire said nothing.
“The sleep deprivation is masking the symptoms.”
My skin went cold.
Symptoms.
What symptoms?
Claire whispered, “Stop.”
“He deserves to know.”
“No.”
“His father made the decision.
Not me.”
“Matteo, please.”
“And if Adrian ever sleeps deeply enough for long enough, the condition will progress.”
I felt as if a door had opened beneath my feet.
Matteo had not been preventing me from sleeping to weaken me.
Or not only to weaken me.
He had been preventing something else.
Something inside my own body.
The file ended.
I stared at the screen.
Behind me, Lily said, “That's why he gets scared when you sleep.”
I turned.
“What?”
She rubbed her eyes.
“Uncle Matteo watches the clock.”
“When?”
“When you're sleeping.”
“How would you know?”
“I saw him.”
“Where?”
She pointed toward the ceiling.
“The room with all the TVs.”
The surveillance room.
My home security system had eighty-six cameras.
None inside bedrooms.
At least that was what I'd ordered.
I carried Lily to Claire's room and waited until Dr.
Marconi arrived.
Claire was stabilized within minutes.
“Benzodiazepine overdose,” Elena said.
“Not enough to kill her.
Enough to keep her unconscious for hours.”
“Can you stay with them?”
Elena studied my face.
“What are you about to do?”
“Find out why there are cameras in my bedroom.”
She went silent.
I left before she could stop me.
The surveillance room was behind the library on the first floor.
The lock opened with my fingerprint.
Inside, twenty monitors glowed in the darkness.
Hallways.
Entrances.
Garages.
Perimeter walls.
Nothing unusual.
Then I noticed a second keyboard.
Hidden beneath the main console.
I pulled it out.
Password prompt.
I entered Matteo's birthday.
Denied.
My father's.
Denied.
My mother's maiden name.
Denied.
Then I remembered the folder in the photograph.
PROJECT NIGHTFALL.
I typed NIGHTFALL.
The screens changed.
My bedroom appeared.
Six camera angles.
My bathroom.
My office.
My private medical room.
My blood turned to ice.
Recordings filled the archive.
Three years.
Every night.
Every failed attempt to sleep.
Every doctor.
Every medication.
Every moment of weakness.
Someone had watched all of it.
I opened the most recent recording.
Tonight.
12:14 a.m.
Lily entering my room.
12:31.
Matteo appearing in the hallway.
12:34.
A second figure standing at the far end of the corridor.
I froze the image.
Enhanced it.
My hands went cold.
A woman.
Silver hair.
Tall.
Elegant.
Wearing black.
No.
Impossible.
I enlarged the image.
The face sharpened.
I stopped breathing.
My mother.
Isabella Moretti.
Dead eighteen years.
Killed in a car explosion outside Florence.
I had identified her body myself.
Or what they told me was her body.
The security timestamp read:
12:34:17 A.M.
Tonight.
I stumbled backward.
Then one of the monitors flickered.
Live camera.
The wine cellar.
The woman from the hallway stood below.
Same black clothes.
Same silver hair.
She looked directly into the camera.
As if she knew I was watching.
Then she raised one finger to her lips.
Quiet.
My phone rang.
Unknown number.
I answered.
No greeting.
Just breathing.
Then a woman's voice.
Older than I remembered.
But unmistakable.
“My beautiful boy.”
Every hair on my arms lifted.
I couldn't speak.
She continued gently.
“You were always too curious.”
“Who is this?”
A soft laugh.
“You know.”
“My mother is dead.”
“So was your uncle Gabriel.”
I gripped the desk.
“What is Nightfall?”
Silence.
Then:
“The reason you haven't slept in three years.”
“Matteo said the sleep deprivation is hiding symptoms.”
“It is.”
“What symptoms?”
“You're asking the wrong question.”
“What question should I ask?”
Her voice became almost tender.
“You should ask why your father was terrified of what would happen if you ever dreamed again.”
A sound came through the phone.
A metal door opening.
I checked the monitor.
The wine cellar was empty.
She was moving underground.
There were tunnels beneath the estate.
Old smuggling passages my grandfather had sealed decades ago.
Or claimed to have sealed.
I grabbed a flashlight and headed toward the cellar.
“Adrian,” my mother said.
“What?”
“Whatever happens next, don't trust Matteo.”
“I already figured that out.”
“No.”
Her voice changed.
For the first time, fear entered it.
“You haven't.”
I stopped walking.
“He kept you awake because I ordered him to.”
Silence.
My throat tightened.
“You?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because the last time you slept properly, three people died.”
I almost laughed.
“What are you talking about?”
“You don't remember.”
“Remember what?”
“You were sixteen.”
I stopped at the cellar door.
A memory flashed.
Rain.
Blood on white tile.
My father holding my shoulders.
Matteo crying.
Then nothing.
I pressed my hand against the wall.
“No.”
“Adrian.”
“No.”
“Your insomnia didn't begin three years ago.”
Her voice softened.
“It returned three years ago.”
Something moved behind me.
I spun around with the gun raised.
Claire stood at the top of the cellar stairs.
Barefoot.
Pale.
Awake.
Dr.
Marconi was nowhere behind her.
“Claire?”
She swayed.
“How are you standing?”
Her eyes were full of tears.
“You need to get Lily out of this house.”
“Where's Elena?”
Claire didn't answer.
I raised the phone.
“Isabella?”
The call had disconnected.
Claire descended one step.
“Adrian, listen to me.”
“What did you know?”
“Not everything.”
“What did you know?”
“That your father was afraid of you sleeping.”
“Why?”
She began crying.
“I don't know.”
“Don't lie to me.”
“I don't!”
She covered her mouth.
Then whispered:
“But I know what happened three years ago.”
My pulse slowed.
“What?”
“The night your insomnia came back.”
I stared at her.
“I was there.”
The cellar seemed to narrow around us.
“You weren't working for me then.”
“Yes, I was.”
“No.
You joined eighteen months later.”
Claire shook her head.
“That was the official story.”
I lowered the gun slightly.
“What were you doing?”
Her eyes met mine.
“Watching you sleep.”
The words hit like a fist.
“Why?”
“Because your father left instructions.”
“My father had been dead for eleven years.”
“He knew this might happen.”
“What might happen?”
Claire looked terrified to say it.
Then Lily screamed upstairs.
Both of us turned.
“MAMA!”
Claire ran.
I followed.
We reached the hallway.
Lily was standing outside my bedroom.
Dr.
Marconi lay unconscious on the carpet.
The front door alarm began ringing.
Someone had entered the house.
I drew my weapon.
Lily pointed into my room.
“He's back.”
“Matteo?”
She shook her head.
I entered slowly.
The lamp was on.
My bed was empty.
On the pillow lay a sealed envelope.
My name written across it.
Not printed.
Written.
I knew that handwriting.
My father's.
I opened it.
Inside was a single photograph.
Sixteen-year-old me.
Asleep.
Standing around the bed were my father, my mother, Matteo, Uncle Gabriel, and a doctor I didn't recognize.
On the back, my father had written one sentence.
IF ADRIAN EVER REMEMBERS WHAT HE DID THAT NIGHT, RUN.
Below it was a date.
The same date my childhood best friend, my private tutor, and one of our security guards had supposedly died in a gas explosion.
I stared at the photograph.
Then Lily tugged my sleeve.
“Mr.
Moretti?”
I looked down.
She was staring at the wall behind my bed.
“What?”
“The door is open.”
“There is no door.”
“Yes, there is.”
She pointed.
A section of wood paneling I had looked at every day for twelve years stood slightly ajar.
I moved toward it.
Behind it was a narrow hidden room.
Cold air rushed out.
I switched on my flashlight.
Medical equipment.
Old restraints.
A chair.
A video camera.
And shelves.
Dozens of videotapes.
Each one labeled with my name.
ADRIAN — AGE 9.
ADRIAN — AGE 12.
ADRIAN — AGE 16.
ADRIAN — NIGHTFALL TRIAL 04.
My hands began trembling.
Then I saw the final tape.
No dust.
New.
Recorded recently.
ADRIAN — AGE 42.
TONIGHT.
The television in the hidden room turned on by itself.
Static filled the screen.
Then an image appeared.
Me.
Sleeping.
Not tonight.
Not three years ago.
The timestamp was tomorrow's date.
And standing beside my bed in the recording was Lily.
Except Lily was older.
Much older.
Maybe twenty-five.
She looked directly into the camera and said:
“If you're watching this, he remembered too soon.”
The screen went black.
Behind me, present-day Lily whispered:
“Mr.
Moretti?”
I slowly turned.
She was no longer looking at the television.
She was staring at me.
And for the first time all night, she didn't look like a frightened three-year-old.
She looked calm.
Almost expectant.
Then she said something no child her age could possibly have known.
“The first time this happened, you killed Matteo.”
My blood froze.
Claire gasped.
I couldn't move.
Lily hugged her battered rabbit.
And smiled.
“That's why we had to do it differently this time.”
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READ FULL PART 2:
FULL STORY: THE SLEEP CURSE – PT04
Source: Stories of Destiny · Thao Thao
