"I'm family."
"Then wait outside."
He looked as if he intended to argue.
But Alessandro was already disappearing behind the doors.
Luca stood in the corridor.
His hands were shaking.
He had seen men shot, stabbed, beaten, and buried.
He had watched Alessandro survive situations that would have destroyed other men.
But he had never watched him collapse.
Not once.
He pulled out his phone and called the family's private physician.
"Doctor."
"What happened?"
"He's been poisoned. We don't know with what."
There was a pause.
"Where is he?"
"St. Catherine's."
"I'm coming."
Luca ended the call.
Then he dialed another number.
"Find the bartender who served the water."
"Yes, Luca."
"Do not touch him. Do not scare him. Just find him."
"Understood."
"And find the maid."
There was silence.
"The maid?"
"Red hair. Burgundy uniform. She was the only person who noticed something was wrong."
"Why?"
Luca looked toward the emergency department doors.
"Because my boss trusted her for three seconds."
He ended the call.
Across the city, Vittorio Moretti was already in his private car.
His driver watched him in the rearview mirror.
"Where to, sir?"
"Home."
"Your brother?"
Vittorio looked out the window.
"What about him?"
"Will he be all right?"
The older man smiled faintly.
"Alessandro has survived worse."
He took out his phone.
A message appeared.
DID IT WORK?
Vittorio typed:
HE IS IN THE HOSPITAL.
A second message came almost immediately.
IS HE DEAD?
Vittorio looked at the screen.
Then he deleted the conversation.
Not dead yet.
He placed the phone in his pocket.
For eleven years, he had waited for his brother to make a mistake.
Now Alessandro had finally made one.
He had trusted the wrong person.
And Vittorio intended to make sure that mistake was his last.
***
Elena walked six blocks before she realized she was crying.
Not because she had lost her job.
She had lost jobs before.
Not because of the rain.
She had walked through worse weather carrying heavier burdens.
She was crying because she had recognized the symbol on Alessandro's ring.
Her father had not died in a random robbery.
She had always suspected that.
He had been a financial auditor for a shipping company. He had discovered irregular payments involving several shell corporations.
Three days before his death, he had told her mother that someone was following him.
He had promised to explain everything after the weekend.
There had been no weekend.
A car had struck him on a wet road near their apartment.
The police called it an accident.
Her mother never believed them.
Neither had Elena.
But without money, connections, or evidence, there had been nothing she could do.
Her mother died four years later.
Her younger brother, Daniel, had been diagnosed with a rare heart condition the following year.
Elena sold their apartment, abandoned nursing school, and worked every shift she could find.
The hospital bills consumed everything.
She had learned to survive without asking why life had become so cruel.
But she had never forgotten the black rose.
She stopped beneath the awning of a closed pharmacy and searched her bag for her phone.
There was one missed call from Daniel.
She called him back.
"Where are you?" he asked immediately.
"Outside."
"Are you coming home?"
"Yes."
"Did something happen?"
Elena looked at the rain.
"I lost my job."
There was silence.
"Again?"
"Daniel."
"I'm sorry."
"Don't be. I'll find another one."
"You always say that."
"Because I always do."
He sighed.
"Are you coming to the hospital tomorrow?"
"Of course."
"The doctor said they want to run another test."
"I'll be there."
"Elena?"
"Yes?"
"Are you crying?"
She closed her eyes.
"No."
"You're a terrible liar."
A small smile appeared on her face.
"Go to sleep."
"Promise you'll come?"
"I promise."
She ended the call.
Then she opened her browser and searched the name on the business card she had taken from the Belladonna staff office.
MORETTI FAMILY.
The first results were ordinary.
Real estate.
Restaurants.
Construction.
Shipping.
Charitable foundations.
Then she found an old newspaper article.
ELEVEN YEARS AGO: SHIPPING EXECUTIVE DIES IN VEHICLE COLLISION.
The victim's name was printed beneath the headline.
ANTONIO ROSSI, 47.
Her father.
Elena felt the world become very small.
She scrolled down.
The article mentioned an ongoing investigation into financial irregularities at the shipping company.
One paragraph had been updated months later.
The investigation had been closed due to insufficient evidence.
At the bottom of the page was a photograph of a man attending the victim's funeral.
Alessandro Moretti.
He looked younger.
Clean-shaven.
Standing beneath a black umbrella.
Elena stared at the photograph.
Her father had known him.
And Alessandro had attended his funeral.
Why?
Her phone vibrated.
An unknown number.
She answered cautiously.
"Hello?"
"Miss Rossi?"
"Who is this?"
"My name is Luca Ferraro. I was at the Belladonna Club tonight."
Elena straightened.
"How did you get my number?"
"Your employment file."
"I don't work there anymore."
"I know."
"Then why are you calling?"
A pause.