Every streetlight looked like a distant warning.
After several minutes, Matteo spoke again.
"Where would you like us to take you?"
"Home."
"Are you sure?"
She hesitated.
"Yes."
Matteo nodded to the driver.
The sedan turned toward Brooklyn.
When they reached Elena's apartment building, Matteo stepped out first.
He inspected the entrance.
Then he checked the stairwell.
Only after he was satisfied did he open the rear door.
"Wait here."
Elena watched him enter the building.
He returned three minutes later.
"Your apartment is empty."
She got out.
"Did you find anything?"
"Nothing obvious."
She walked upstairs with him.
The moment she unlocked her apartment, she noticed something strange.
The living room was exactly as she had left it.
The curtains were closed.
The kitchen light was off.
But the photograph of her mother, usually placed beside the television, had been moved.
It was facing downward.
Elena approached slowly.
Matteo remained near the doorway.
She lifted the frame.
On the back was a small piece of paper.
Three words had been written in black ink.
HE IS NOT DEAD.
Elena stopped breathing.
"Matteo."
He crossed the room.
"What is it?"
She handed him the note.
He read it.
Then he looked at her.
"Who?"
Elena shook her head.
"My father."
Matteo took out his phone.
He called Lorenzo.
***
At 1:17 a.m., Lorenzo Moretti was sitting alone in his father's old study.
The room had not changed much since Vittorio's death.
Dark wooden shelves covered the walls. A large desk stood beneath the window. A silver-framed photograph of Vittorio and Lorenzo rested beside a crystal ashtray.
Lorenzo had never liked the photograph.
His father was smiling.
Lorenzo was not.
He remembered the day it had been taken.
He had been twenty-four, angry about something insignificant, convinced that the world was waiting to disappoint him.
Vittorio had looked at him afterward.
"One day," the old man had said, "you will understand that power is not the ability to make people obey."
"What is it, then?"
"Knowing what you must protect when everyone around you wants something."
Lorenzo had dismissed the lesson.
Now he was thirty-eight.
And he had spent most of his life protecting things he did not fully understand.
His phone rang.
Matteo.
"Go ahead."
"There's been a development."
Lorenzo listened.
When Matteo finished, he closed his eyes.
"Send me a photograph of the note."
"Already sent."
Lorenzo opened the image.
HE IS NOT DEAD.
For several seconds, he stared at the words.
Then he stood.
"Bring Elena here."
"Understood."
"And Matteo?"
"Yes?"
"From now on, nobody approaches her without my knowledge."
"I'll arrange it."
Lorenzo ended the call.
He walked to the desk and opened the bottom drawer.
Inside was a small metal box.
He had kept it locked for eleven years.
The key was attached to a chain he wore beneath his shirt.
He unlocked the box.
There were three items inside.
A photograph of Daniel Marin.
A handwritten letter.
And a second key.
Lorenzo unfolded the letter.
The handwriting was unmistakable.
Daniel's.
Lorenzo,
If you are reading this, something has happened that I could not prevent.
Do not trust the version of events you hear from my enemies.
Do not trust the version you hear from your father.
And above all, do not allow Elena to discover the truth alone.
She deserves better than the life we have given her.
Daniel.
Lorenzo read it twice.
Then he looked at the photograph.
Daniel stood beside him outside the warehouse.
Both men were younger.
Both were smiling.
Behind them, a third figure was partially visible.
Lorenzo turned the photograph over.
A name had been written on the back.
VITTORIO MORETTI.
***
The Moretti estate stood beyond a private road in Westchester.
It was an enormous stone residence surrounded by carefully maintained gardens, tall trees, and security cameras disguised as exterior lights.
Elena arrived shortly after two in the morning.
She had changed out of her evening dress and was wearing a borrowed sweater.
Lorenzo was waiting in the entrance hall.
He had not slept.
"Come with me."
She followed him into the study.
The moment she saw the photograph on the desk, she stopped.
"My father."
Lorenzo nodded.
She approached.
"He looks younger."
"He was forty-two."
Elena touched the edge of the photograph.
"Where was this taken?"
"Outside a warehouse."
"Was that where you met him?"
"Yes."
She looked at the letter.
"Is that his handwriting?"
"Yes."
"Why did he write it?"
Lorenzo pulled out a chair.
"Because he knew something was coming."
Elena remained standing.
"What did he know?"
Lorenzo placed the photograph beside the letter.
"Your father discovered that Adrian Voss had been stealing money from the people he worked with."
"How much?"
"Enough to make several powerful men uncomfortable."
"Did you know?"
"I suspected."
"Did you help him?"
"I intended to."
Elena looked at him.
"But?"
"But my father had already made arrangements with someone else."
"Who?"
Lorenzo was silent.
She understood.
"Your father."
He nodded.
"Vittorio."
Elena sat down.
"Why would my father work with your father?"
"Because Vittorio had influence. He could make certain records disappear. He could protect Daniel's family."
"Then why didn't he?"
Lorenzo looked at the letter.
"That is what I intend to find out."
Elena's hands began trembling again.
"You're telling me that your father knew mine?"
"Yes."
"And you kept this?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
"I received it after Daniel disappeared."