Chapter 3 - VITTORIO MORETTI’S LIE
Dante did not take me to Lake Forest.
I took myself.
That distinction mattered enough that I forced it.
When he said, “You stay here,” I looked at him.
He closed his eyes.
Then tried again.
“Do you want to come?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because the Kowalskis kidnapped my brother over something my grandmother apparently stole from your family.”
He nodded.
“Fair.”
Luca laughed.
Dante ignored him.
The twins stayed at the penthouse with Rosa, Arthur, and two women from a private pediatric security team I had never known existed.
I did not like leaving them.
That surprised me.
I had known them less than two hours.
But Mia had fallen asleep holding my finger.
Bella had cried when I stood.
“Back?”
“Yes.”
“Promise?”
I almost said yes automatically.
Then stopped.
Promises to children should survive reality.
“I plan to come back tonight.”
Bella frowned.
“Promise?”
I crouched.
“I promise I will try very hard.”
She considered.
Then handed me a feather from the destroyed pillow.
“For back.”
Collateral.
Children invent contracts too.
I put it in my pocket.
Lake Forest at night looked like old money trying not to admit Chicago existed nearby.
Vittorio Moretti lived in a stone mansion behind iron gates.
No visible guards.
Which meant many invisible ones.
Dante sat beside me in the SUV.
Luca drove.
No one spoke until the gates opened.
I asked:
“Does your father know I’m coming?”
“No.”
“Good.”
Dante looked at me.
“Why?”
“I want to see his face when he hears Lucia Russo.”
Luca smiled.
“Definitely keeping her.”
Dante said:
“She is not furniture.”
“Progress,” I whispered.
He heard.
His mouth moved.
Barely.
Vittorio met us in the library.
He had Dante’s eyes.
Older.
Sharper.
White hair.
Black cardigan.
Moretti ring on his right hand.
Bella’s memory.
He saw me.
Nothing.
Then Dante said:
“Lucia Russo.”
Vittorio went pale.
There.
I felt satisfaction.
Then anger.
“You know the name,” I said.
Vittorio looked at Dante.
“Who is she?”
“She can answer.”
I appreciated that.
“My name is Emilia Russo.”
I had not told Dante my first name until paperwork earlier.
Everyone at the diner called me Emmy.
Toby called me Mil.
Grandma called me Emilia only when angry.
Vittorio repeated:
“Emilia.”
“Yes.”
“Lucia’s granddaughter?”
“You tell me.”
He sat.
That frightened me more than denial.
Dante remained standing.
“What did Lucia steal?”
Vittorio looked at him.
“Who told you that?”
“Kowalski.”
“Which Kowalski?”
“Does it matter?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
Vittorio ignored him.
I stepped forward.
“My brother has been kidnapped over a music box. Start there.”
Vittorio’s eyes moved to me.
“Lucia did not steal the box.”
Dante’s jaw tightened.
“What did she steal?”
“Proof.”
Silence.
“What proof?” I asked.
Vittorio looked toward the windows.
Rain moved across the glass.
“Antonio Conti was not Isabella’s grandfather.”
I blinked.
Dante frowned.
“What?”
Vittorio continued.
“Maria married Antonio. Everyone knows that.”
“Yes.”
“But Isabella’s mother, Teresa, was not Antonio’s child.”
I stared.
“Then whose?”
Vittorio looked at me.
“Enzo Russo.”
My grandfather.
The room became silent.
“No.”
My voice came out flat.
“Lucia’s husband had a child with her sister?”
“Yes.”
I laughed.
“No.”
“I’m sorry.”
“You don’t get to be sorry yet.”
Fair.
Vittorio nodded.
The story was older than any of us.
Before Lucia escaped with Enzo, Enzo and Maria had been in love.
That was why Lucia was promised to Antonio.
Not because Lucia wanted him.
Because the families wanted to separate Maria from Enzo and preserve a Conti alliance.
Lucia knew.
She married Enzo anyway.
Not betrayal.
Agreement.
The sisters made a choice together.
Maria stayed because leaving would have endangered everyone.
Months later, she discovered she was pregnant with Enzo’s child.
Teresa.
Isabella’s mother.
My grandmother helped hide it.
My grandfather never knew until years later.
I felt sick.
“So Isabella and I are…”
“Second cousins through Enzo,” Vittorio said.
Family, but distant.
Enough to explain the lullaby lineage.
Enough to explain physical resemblance maybe.
Not enough to make me Isabella.
Not enough to make Mia’s “Mommy” anything but a child recognizing echoes.
“What was in the music boxes?”
“Letters.”
“From who?”
“Maria and Lucia.”
Dante looked at him.
“You knew Isabella had them.”
“One.”
“The black box.”
“Yes.”
“Blue?”
Vittorio’s face tightened.
“Lucia had it.”
“Why did Kowalski want them?”
Vittorio looked at me.
“Because the letters were not only family history.”
Of course.
“They contained names.”
Dante’s expression hardened.
“What names?”
“Conti business partners. Police. judges. union men. Moretti contacts.”
“How?”
“Maria used letters to Lucia as insurance. She wrote in code.”
I almost laughed.
“So the lullaby family had an intelligence archive.”
Vittorio’s mouth moved.
“Essentially.”
“And my grandmother?”
“She decoded them.”
“How?”
“The lullaby.”
My skin prickled.
“What?”
Vittorio looked at Dante.
“Isabella never told you?”
“No.”
“The melody contains a numeric pattern.”
Dante stared.
“Three-two-four?”
Vittorio nodded.
I thought of the song.
Three beats.
Two.
Then four.
Again and again.
A cipher key.
The lullaby was not only comfort.
It was encryption.
Grandma had taught it to me because it was family.
Maybe without ever telling me why.
“What did Lucia do with the proof?”
“She left Chicago.”
“She was in Chicago?”
“Yes.”
I stared.
“She told me she came directly to Milwaukee.”
“Not true.”
“She lived here?”
“Two years.”
“When?”
“Before your mother was born.”
My entire family story cracked.
Dante said:
“Why hide her?”
“Conti wanted her dead.”
“Because she knew Teresa’s father.”
“And because she held the letters.”
“Where did Kowalski enter?”
Vittorio’s face changed.
“They bought part of the Conti operation years later.”
Dante understood.
“The old letters could expose ownership and murders.”
“Yes.”
“Current leverage.”
“Possibly.”
I folded my arms.
“Possibly is doing a lot of work.”
Vittorio looked at me.
“Some men named in those letters became grandfathers of men still in power.”
“Like you.”
Silence.
There.
I knew.
“Your name is in them.”
“No.”
“Your father?”
“Yes.”
Dante turned.
“My grandfather.”
Vittorio nodded.
“And what did he do?”
“Ordered a killing.”
The room chilled.
“Whose?” Dante asked.
Vittorio looked at me.
“Lucia’s father.”
My great-grandfather.
I stared.
Dante went still.
“Moretti killed her father?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“He refused to reveal where Lucia and Maria had hidden the correspondence.”
I laughed.
No humor.
“So this family murdered mine over letters, my grandmother disappeared, her granddaughter married into your family, died in a bombing, and now Kowalski kidnaps my brother for the same box.”
Vittorio closed his eyes.
“Yes.”
“At least the story is efficient.”
Dante looked furious.
Not at me.
At his father.
“You knew Isabella was connected to Lucia.”
“Yes.”
“Did Isabella?”
“Yes.”
“Why didn’t she tell me?”
“She did not trust what you would do.”
That landed.
Dante’s face went blank.
Vittorio continued.
“She feared you would go to war with Kowalski and Conti remnants.”
“Maybe I would have.”
“Yes.”
“So she kept it.”
“Yes.”
“And died.”
Vittorio looked down.
Dante whispered:
“Did the bombing happen because of the boxes?”
Vittorio did not answer.
My stomach turned.
“You know.”
He looked at his son.
“I suspect.”
“Who?”
“Not Kowalski.”
Silence.
“Then who?”
Vittorio’s face hardened.
“Someone inside Moretti.”
Luca swore.
Dante stepped forward.
“Name.”
“I don’t have one.”
“Who knew she had the box?”
“Me. Isabella. Father Santoro.”
“Luca?”
“No.”
“Arthur?”
“No.”
“Rosa?”
“She knew of it, not contents.”
Dante stared.
“You said you came to the penthouse after the funeral.”
“Yes.”
“The twins remember a white-haired man with a Moretti ring looking for something.”
Vittorio’s face changed.
“I was looking for the blue box.”
“Why?”
“Because Isabella told me before she died that she found it.”
I stopped breathing.
“She had both?”
“Yes.”
“Where?”
“I don’t know.”
“Did you enter the nursery?”
“No.”
Dante watched him.
“You are lying.”
Vittorio looked at me.
Not Dante.
Then:
“Yes.”
The room went cold.
“Why?” Dante asked.
“I did enter.”
“You lied just now.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because I found something.”
“What?”
Vittorio walked to an old desk.
Opened a locked drawer.
Removed a photograph.
Two black music boxes?
No.
One black.
One blue.
Both sitting on a nursery shelf.
Behind them, Isabella.
Alive.
Holding the twins.
Timestamp two days before the bombing.
On the back, Isabella’s handwriting:
IF ANYTHING HAPPENS TO ME, THE BLUE BOX DOES NOT GO TO DANTE.
Dante stopped breathing.
I stared.
“Why not?”
Vittorio looked at his son.
“Because she believed the person who wanted it was someone you trusted.”
Silence.
Then my phone rang.
Kowalski.
I answered.
A video connected.
Toby.
Face bruised.
Alive.
Behind him stood a man I recognized.
Not from my life.
From the Moretti penthouse.
Arthur.
The butler.
My stomach dropped.
Arthur looked into the camera.
Then smiled.
“Hello, Emilia.”
Dante took one step toward the phone.
Arthur continued.
“Tell Mr. Moretti his daughters remember more than he thinks.”
No one moved for several seconds after Arthur’s face vanished from the screen.
I realized my hands were shaking only when Dante quietly slid a glass of water toward me.
He did not tell me to drink it.
He did not touch me.
He simply placed it within reach.
That small restraint mattered more than he probably understood.
I took the glass.
“What if Arthur is lying too?”
Dante looked at the dead phone.
“Then we verify him.”
“Not trust him?”
“No.”
“Even after twenty years?”
His expression hardened.
“Especially after twenty years.”
May you like
I nodded.
That was the first moment I believed Dante might actually survive learning the truth about his own family without becoming exactly like them.
