His father had used those exact words shortly before sending Adrian away to Switzerland at nineteen.
He never explained why.
Three months later, Adrian received news that his mother had died.
He returned to Bellavita for the funeral.
By then, Vittorio had already buried the family secrets beneath layers of money, influence, and silence.
Adrian spent the next decade building an empire that no longer depended on his father's methods.
He preferred information to intimidation.
He preferred contracts to unnecessary violence.
And he had one rule that every person working for him understood.
No one was permitted to involve innocent families in the organization's private conflicts.
That rule had cost him money.
It had also made him enemies.
But Adrian had never regretted it.
Until Elena.
He had met her six months earlier.
At first, she was simply the waitress who worked at Bellini's Café, a modest establishment situated between an old bookstore and a flower shop.
The café was not impressive.
Its wooden chairs had been repaired more times than anyone could remember. The front windows rattled whenever buses passed. The floor near the kitchen had a permanent stain that no cleaning product could remove.
Yet Adrian liked the place.
It was one of the few locations in Bellavita where nobody expected him to be someone important.
The owner, an elderly woman named Rosa Bellini, had known Adrian's mother.
She never asked questions about his business.
She simply served him espresso.
Elena had started working there after her mother's death.
She was twenty-six, with dark brown hair, expressive eyes, and a habit of apologizing whenever someone bumped into her, even when it was obviously their fault.
She was not particularly interested in wealthy men.
She did not recognize expensive watches.
And when Adrian first walked into the café wearing a suit that cost more than the building's monthly rent, she asked him whether he wanted the breakfast special.
He had looked at her.
"The breakfast special?"
"Yes."
"Do you know who I am?"
She had glanced at the menu.
"A customer?"
He almost smiled.
"Something like that."
He returned the following morning.
And the morning after that.
Eventually, he began visiting without bringing his driver or bodyguard inside.
Elena never asked why.
She simply remembered his coffee order.
Double espresso.
No sugar.
A glass of water.
Their conversations started with ordinary things.
The weather.
The unreliable heating system.
The terrible music playing from the café's old speakers.
Then they became something more.
Elena discovered that Adrian preferred reading physical books. He discovered that she wanted to open a small bakery one day.
She told him about her mother, Sofia, who had raised her alone.
He told her almost nothing about his family.
It was not because he disliked her.
It was because every honest sentence about the Moretti family seemed to require another lie afterward.
Elena eventually stopped asking.
She understood that some people carried histories they were not ready to share.
What Adrian did not understand was that Elena was carrying one too.
And it had been waiting for him.
***
The old man in the café introduced himself as Samuel De Luca.
He had once worked for Vittorio Moretti.
Not as a soldier.
Not as a driver.
He had been the family's accountant and legal adviser, responsible for the records that connected its legitimate businesses to the men who controlled them.
He had disappeared fifteen years earlier.
Adrian had heard his name only twice.
The first time was during an argument between his father and his uncle.
The second was in a sealed document discovered after Vittorio's funeral.
That document contained one sentence.
If Samuel ever returns, do not let him speak to the girl.
Adrian had never understood what it meant.
Now he was beginning to.
"Sit down," Adrian said.
Samuel remained standing.
"You haven't changed."
"Neither have you."
"Your father used to say that you would become a better man than him."
Adrian's expression hardened.
"My father said many things."
"Some of them were true."
"Why are you here?"
Samuel looked at Elena.
"Because her mother is dead."
Elena stepped forward.
"Don't talk about my mother as if you knew her."
Samuel's eyes softened.
"I knew her very well."
"No, you didn't."
"I was there when she gave birth to you."
The words seemed to remove every sound from the room.
Elena stared at him.
"What?"
Samuel opened the folder again.
Inside were documents arranged in careful order. Hospital records. Bank transfers. Old letters. A handwritten statement bearing Vittorio Moretti's signature.
Adrian picked up the first page.
His eyes moved across the lines.
Then he stopped.
"What is this?"
"A payment authorization."
"From my father?"
"Yes."
"To whom?"
"To Sofia Romano."
Elena took a step backward.
Her mother's maiden name.
Samuel continued.
"Your father had been dead for three months when Sofia received the first payment. Your mother was given money to leave Bellavita, change her identity, and raise you somewhere your father's enemies would never find you."
Elena shook her head.
"My father died before I was born."
Samuel looked at her.
"That is what your mother told you."
"She said he was a sailor. She said he died at sea."
"That was the story she was instructed to tell."
Elena's fingers trembled.
"Who was he?"
Samuel looked at Adrian.
For a moment, the old man's expression became almost apologetic.
"Vittorio Moretti."
Adrian did not move.