And a small brass key.
She picked it up.
A memory returned.
Her father had once told her that the safest place for something important was somewhere ordinary people would never think to look.
She searched the desk.
Nothing.
Then she noticed a small wooden panel beneath the bottom drawer.
It was loose.
She removed it.
Behind the panel was a narrow compartment containing a black notebook and a miniature recording device.
Isabella sat down.
The notebook was filled with handwritten numbers, dates, and company names.
Many of them matched the documents she had discovered.
At the back was a letter.
Her name was written on the envelope.
She opened it.
My dearest Isabella,
If you are reading this, then I have probably failed to explain something important to you.
I spent many years believing that good people could survive by keeping their heads down and doing their work honestly.
I was wrong.
There are people who do not see money as a means of living. They see it as a means of owning other people.
I worked for men like that.
For a long time, I told myself I was only an accountant. I did not make decisions. I did not hurt anyone. I simply recorded what other people had done.
But silence is not always innocence.
I helped hide things that should never have been hidden.
Then I discovered that someone was using our accounts to finance the murder of a man who had trusted me.
His name was Lorenzo Moretti.
I tried to warn him.
I was too late.
I do not know who will come looking for these records. I only know that they will not stop because I am gone.
There is one man you must never trust simply because he shares Lorenzo's blood.
He knows what happened.
And he knows what I did.
I am sorry I could not protect you from the consequences of my choices.
Love,
Dad.
Isabella read the letter twice.
Then a third time.
Her hands were shaking.
She looked at the final sentence.
One man you must never trust simply because he shares Lorenzo's blood.
Vittorio.
The name appeared in her mind immediately.
She picked up her phone.
Adrian answered.
"Isabella?"
"I found something."
"What?"
"My father wrote me a letter."
"Where are you?"
"At his apartment."
"Stay there. I'm coming."
"No. Listen to me."
She looked at the notebook.
"He says someone in your family knew about your father's murder."
Adrian became silent.
"Who?"
"I don't know."
"Read me the letter."
She did.
When she finished, Adrian did not speak.
Then he asked, very quietly:
"Did he mention a name?"
"No."
"Any initials?"
"No."
"Any dates?"
"Several. I'm looking at them now."
"Photograph everything."
She turned the page.
There was a name written beside a date.
VITTORIO MORETTI.
Below it were three words.
FINAL AUTHORIZATION.
Isabella stopped breathing for a moment.
"Adrian."
"What?"
"I think I found him."
***
Adrian arrived at the apartment twenty minutes later.
He came alone.
That was unusual.
He entered, locked the door, and went straight to Isabella.
She handed him the notebook.
He read the page.
Then he sat down.
For the first time in many years, Adrian Moretti looked like a man who did not know what to do.
Vittorio had been his father's brother.
He had taught Adrian to drive.
He had attended his mother's funeral.
He had sat beside Lorenzo's hospital bed during the final hours.
He had helped Adrian take control of the family after the funeral.
He had been there every time Adrian needed someone.
And now his name appeared beside the words FINAL AUTHORIZATION.
"Could it be a different Vittorio?" Adrian asked.
Isabella shook her head.
"The company was registered to him."
He examined the other entries.
The records showed a chain of transactions involving three shell companies, two foreign accounts, and a holding company connected to Salvatore D'Angelo.
At the bottom of the page was a handwritten note.
Lorenzo refused.
Vittorio approved.
Daniel copied everything.
Adrian closed the notebook.
"Your father knew."
"Yes."
"Did he ever tell you?"
"No."
"Why not?"
She looked at him.
"Maybe because he knew what happened to your father."
Adrian stood.
He walked toward the window.
For several moments, he watched the street below.
Then he called Marco.
"Get Enzo."
"What's happened?"
"I have a name."
"Who?"
"Vittorio."
There was a long silence.
Marco finally answered.
"Are you certain?"