But every lead ended in silence.
The driver disappeared before he could be questioned again. The vehicle had been destroyed. The security footage from the road was mysteriously unavailable.
Three years later, Alessandro still had no answer.
He had learned to live with that uncertainty by burying himself in work.
The girls were cared for by a private staff, educated by tutors, protected by security personnel, and surrounded by every luxury money could provide.
Yet they still asked for their mother.
And every time they did, Alessandro felt as though somebody had reached into his chest and tightened a fist around his heart.
That morning, he had planned to leave for a meeting in Manhattan at nine.
At eight fifteen, Isabella entered his study without knocking.
"Daddy?"
Alessandro looked up from the documents on his desk.
"Good morning, principessa."
She climbed into the chair opposite him.
"Are you going away?"
"For a little while."
"Again?"
He put down his pen.
"Only for work."
Isabella frowned.
"Work is always taking you."
The sentence was simple.
It was also more accurate than anything his advisers had said to him in months.
Alessandro leaned back.
"Come here."
She crossed the room and climbed into his lap.
He kissed the top of her head.
"I'll be back before dinner."
"Promise?"
"I promise."
She considered him carefully.
"Pinkie promise?"
A faint smile appeared on his face.
He extended his little finger.
She wrapped hers around it.
"Now it's real," she declared.
For a moment, Alessandro remained seated with his daughter in his arms.
Then his telephone vibrated.
He glanced at the screen.
Marco Bellini.
His underboss.
Alessandro's expression hardened.
"Go find your sister," he told Isabella gently. "And don't steal the biscuits from the kitchen."
She smiled.
"I never do."
"You did yesterday."
"That was Sofia."
From the doorway, Sofia's small voice answered.
"It was Isabella!"
Alessandro almost laughed.
The girls ran away together.
He watched them disappear before answering the call.
"Speak."
Marco's voice came through immediately.
"We have a problem."
"How serious?"
"Serious enough that I wouldn't discuss it over the telephone."
Alessandro stood.
"Where are you?"
"Ten minutes away."
"Then take eleven. I don't like people arriving before I've finished my coffee."
He ended the call.
Outside the study, the estate continued its morning routine. Staff members moved through the corridors. Security personnel exchanged positions. Somewhere upstairs, the girls were arguing over a stuffed rabbit.
It was an ordinary morning.
Alessandro had no idea that by lunchtime, his entire understanding of his wife's death would begin to collapse.
At nine twenty, Marco arrived.
He was forty-two, broad-shouldered, and had been beside Alessandro since they were teenagers. Their fathers had built the Moretti organization together, and Marco had spent half his life protecting Alessandro from men who wanted his position.
He entered the study carrying a leather folder.
Alessandro did not offer him a seat.
"What happened?"
Marco placed the folder on the desk.
"Someone accessed the old financial archive."
Alessandro glanced at it.
"Which archive?"
"The one connected to Lucia's foundation."
The room became still.
"Explain."
"Three accounts were accessed last night. They were created under different names, but all of them lead back to the same holding company."
"Who owns it?"
"That's the problem. The company doesn't officially exist anymore."
Alessandro opened the folder.
Inside were several printed documents, photographs of financial transfers, and a copy of an old company registration.
He studied the papers.
Then he stopped.
A signature appeared at the bottom of the final page.
Lucia Moretti.
His wife's signature.
Alessandro looked at Marco.
"Where did you get this?"
"From a bank employee who contacted us yesterday."
"Why?"
"He says Lucia visited him three days before the accident. She asked him to prepare a sealed financial statement."
Alessandro looked down again.
"Did she tell him why?"
"No."
"Did he tell the police?"
"He says he was instructed not to."
Alessandro closed the folder.
"Find him."
"Already done."
"And?"
Marco hesitated.
"He disappeared this morning."
Alessandro slowly lifted his eyes.
"People don't disappear from my city without somebody helping them."
"I know."
"Then find the person helping him."
Marco nodded.
He had known Alessandro long enough to recognize the change in his expression.
This was no longer a financial investigation.
It was personal.
Before Marco could say anything else, the study door opened.
Elena Rossi entered carrying a small tray.
She had worked in the Moretti household for seven years. She was thirty-one, educated, and had been responsible for managing the domestic staff since Lucia's death.
She placed a cup of coffee on the desk.
"Mr. Moretti."
Alessandro nodded.
"Thank you."
Elena looked toward Marco.
"Would you like anything?"
"No."
She turned to leave.